Chapter Text
“You know,” Theon Greyjoy slurs after his fifth pint, eyes focussing on nothing in particular, “girls playing rugby is fucking sexy. Who knows what they do in the scrum. All them hands all over the place-” He grins to himself, sharp angles and a gap between his front teeth, expression veering towards the lascivious
“You know,” Oberyn replies, archly, and he never seems to get as drunk as the rest of them. Too much drinking as a youth in some very dodgy parts of Dorne means he has a liver like iron. He drinks like a man, not like Theon, who is just a little boy playing grown-up. “Boys playing rugby is sexy. Who knows what they do in the scrum. Hands all over the place.”
Greyjoy turns red, grumbles, goes to find some more crisps. The selection of such at The Mayflower goes above and beyond all human comprehension. There are flavours that no right-minded soul would touch with someone else’s ten foot bargepole, let alone their own. Tyrion likes foisting them upon drunks, just to see what happens.
“Totally closeted,” he says to himself. No one can talk that much about the female anatomy without wishing to conceal something.
“Who is?” Tyrion lurks below eye level, and sometimes is a ninja. Sometimes he appears out of nowhere, like some crazed martial artist from Braavos, sans pointy weaponry and an urge to ritually slaughter.
“Theon.”
“Totally.”
“ Even if he seems obsessed with young women playing rugby at the moment. The new coach inflames his senses.”
“Ah, the Tarth woman?”
“Mmm, yes.”
“Have you seen the Tarth woman?” Tyrion idly fiddles with his cuffs, unbuttoning them, rolling the fabric over his broad lower arms. Oberyn would sleep with him, but has not developed that much of a death wish; Shae can be a jealous and demanding lover, which his little Imp friend appreciates. It is entirely pleasant seeing Tyrion happy.
“No. Should I?”
“Knowing you, you’d shag her. You shag anything with a pulse, and even then you’re not picky.”
“Beauty can be found in all, little Imp.” Even Imps with mismatched eyes and scarred faces.
“You’ll change your opinion. Fucking awesome legs though, could snap a man in two.”
“Fascinating-”
“You’re thinking of shagging her, aren’t you?”
“Amazons, Tyrion, are delightful.”
She is stared at as she enters The Mayflower, that ancient building tucked deep in the heart of Flea Bottom where Tyrion Lannister makes far too much money for him just to be selling beer. Brienne is used to the looks, the sneering. She showered at the gym, and is still vaguely damp about the hair, make up free as ever, and in her usual post-workout clothing of hoodie and leggings. Perhaps others may have dressed up, made an effort. Not her, though. Put a dress on a pig, and it is still a pig, she thinks. No point wasting money on buying a dress when she looks far less hideous and feels more comfortable in casual.
A man, dark-eyed and smiling, overly sensual, looks her up and down with an oddly appreciative gaze.
“What’d you like?” Two people behind the bar; a young woman with glossy dark hair and tanned skin suggesting Essosi heritage, and a sensible looking man in his mid forties with naval tattoos and a beard, sporting a King’s Landing rugby shirt.
“Diet bitter lemon, no ice, please.” A treat. Brienne treats her body as a temple.
“Nice seeing a new face ‘round here.” He seems friendly, and she notices his hand with an inward wince.
“Brienne, I’ve just moved from the Sapphire Isle.”
“Ah,” and he grins and is just like her Dad in a moment. It makes her feel a little more at home. “Are you the young lady who is here to coach rugby? Really good to meet you, I’m Davos, one of the organisers. We could do with someone to keep the buggers in line.”
“I’m supposed to be meeting the sponsor here, a Mr. Baratheon?”
“Stannis is running late, he’s got tied up at work. No rest for the wicked.” Her blankness leads him to explain more. “He’s a lawyer, when he’s not obsessed over rugby.”
“Oh, right.”
“But, we’ve got some of the players in. Obviously us being casual rather than professional, even if Stannis wants to move in that direction and hired you, means you get all sorts. Oberyn, he’s the dark bloke, good winger. Theon is the skinny one drinking Guinness, centre, he’s from Pyke. Hard as nails, even if you’d not think it. The times I’ve seen him kicked in the balls and not flinch- Anyway, Tyrion, who’s the other sponsor, is the dwarf.”
“Little person,” she corrects, without meaning to.
“He calls himself dwarf, says he’s trying to reclaim it like the gays are getting back ‘queer.’” A shrug, and there is no malice in any part of this nice man. “Redhead is Robb, the sulky one is Jon, fly-half, good captain, the fat one is Sam. They’re all in university but prefer to play for us than the UKL team.” The names blend as he goes on about Beric, and Ramsay, and Sandor, and then onwards to Edd, who is apparently Dolorous, and-
“By the Seven, Davos, she’ll not remember any of them.” The girl behind the bar shakes her head, grinning. “I’m Shae, Tyrion’s missus.” Her accent is foreign, and she really is very pretty indeed. Brienne could feel jealous, but she is not that sort of woman. Other people are beautiful. Brienne is just Brienne, and mostly at peace with her looks.
“Beer,” someone calls. “It’s an emergency.”
Emergency Beer Man is golden, and beautiful, and has the arrogant expression of someone who knows exactly what their looks do to approximately sixty five percent of the population of Westeros.
“Why’s it an emergency, Jaime?” Shae laughs, pours an Arbor Golden Rose from the tap, slides it to the blond.
“Because I ran out of beer,” he says. “Emergency.” He swigs at the drink like a man dying from dehydration, a single-minded swallowing that suggests something more than minor alcoholism.
“Oh,” Davos leans in, softer now. He smells of hops, and a light cologne that somehow seems a little bit too classy. “That’s Jaime.”
“Jaime?”
“The other coach, sort of. He’s the reason you’re here.”
Stannis Baratheon arrives eventually, forty minutes after they were due to start, in time to see Theon Greyjoy get punched.
Which is reassuringly normal. He gets punched by strangers quite often.
The puncher is not usually six feet plus of woman with spectacular legs and an unfortunate face that could send horses into a panicky stampede.
“Davos?” The barman finds the whisky and administers. Tyrion is cackling, hyena-like, sitting on the bar in his usual position. The others observe with an excited interest; they enjoy seeing Greyjoy dragged down a few pegs, given he has tried to seduce the majority of their partners, although Oberyn is always willing to share. The only reason Bronn gets away with having his girlfriend unmolested is because she is Theon’s sister.
“Theon got handsy.”
“I told you not to allow him to drink so much, Davos.” The accusation lingers.
“He seems to have others buying his pints. Sorry, Stannis, I’ll cut them off if needed.”
Davos is sexy, and Stannis internally swears. He wants to lick every inch of those intricate naval tattooes, then every inch of the barman, and then take every inch he can get. Straight, of course. A man with so many bloody sons must be. But then so is Stannis. Mostly. But Davos’ tattoos, and beard, and the way he smokes a pipe, can do things to the most heterosexual and red-blooded of men.
“Who is that?” Indicating the blonde who is now mopping the blood off Theon’s mashed lips with a dampened serviette, explaining, at length, in a soft and lecturing tone, why women have bodily autonomy, why he should respect them, and really, trying to smack her arse just invites someone giving him a slap.
“Brienne.” There is amusement in the rough voice, and Stannis idly wonders whether Davos would tie him up and do terrible, nefarious, possibly illegal things with his mouth.
Then it sinks in.
“Gods, that is our new coach?”
He likes her instantly. Everyone wants to punch Theon, but no one who knows him dares since Ramsay would have their face off with his teeth. Bolton is hung up on the little shit, for no reason at all. Sometimes Stannis dreams of leaving them in a locked room, and seeing what happens. Sex or murder, probably both, at the same time. Stannis finds the thought amusing. That is about as far as his sense of humour extends.
“Yep. And you should have a word with Jaime about it, since you’ve not told him he’s being sidelined. Last seen heading towards the loo, looking green about the gills, mate.”
Davos was in the navy. Sailors can do intricate knots, and possibly be versed in the beautiful art of Japanese rope bondage. Davos might even still have his uniform.
Stannis orders himself not to get an erection. Surprisingly, his request is acknowledged and understood.
“Miss Tarth.”
“Mr. Baratheon.”
They shake hands. Nice, firm grip from Stannis, and Brienne responds with her own powerful squeeze that sends his eyebrow flickering.
“A pleasure. Please try not to punch Greyjoy; unfortunately he is quite a talented centre, and we need his kicking ability. Jon’s groin is particularly delicate this season.”
She blinks, processes admirably, caught between wondering how Jon - who she has not yet met - hurt his groin, and the politics of rugby teams.
“He did try and molest me, Mr. Baratheon.”
“I should have him neutered,” mutters the man, rather angrily. “Really, I hope that you will teach him to focus on the game, rather than his ridiculous affinity towards having intercourse with every female that has a pulse.”
“Um?”
“While I wish to welcome you first, Miss Tarth, I am also aware that you are a seasoned professional. You must be properly informed of why I insisted upon you joining us.” He takes a sip of whisky, and she realises that Stannis is a jaw grinder. Brienne flicks through her list of therapist friends. Bruxism can be awful if left untreated. He is quite handsome, if granite and humourless about the jawline.
“Lannister, who you have briefly met and is probably passed out in a puddle of his own urine somewhere, is a drunk. Excellent coach, even better player, but since he lost his hand-”
“That’s Jaime Lannister?” Seven above and all of the Stranger’s tiny little imps!
“Is there any other?” Of course. The poster boy of Westerosi rugby. The Lion of Castamere. It is documented what happened when Gregor Clegane stamped on his wrist and smashed Lannister’s arm to pieces during the final game of the IBB Seven Kingdoms Tourney two years previously, ending his career. Only having one hand is not conducive for playing rugby at any level, let alone international.
“I refuse to allow such displays of selfish destruction bring down my team.” Stannis is ruthless; she can see it in his expression. He is the sort of single-minded and hard-nosed bastard that can either drive everyone to wanting to jump off various bridges, or to something that glitters high and beautiful and triumphant. “I refuse to allow that man to destroy everything that I am building. My players are unusual, but have talent. They are perhaps not the choice of the larger, professional teams, but they are mine. I will do what is right by my men, Miss Tarth, and that right is providing an excellent coach. One who is also unusual in the world of rugby. You are here on your merits, but also because I think you are the sort of person who can cope admirably with the different.”
“You have my word I will do my utmost. I swear.”
“You seem a woman of honour, Miss Tarth. I was lucky enough to train as a youth under your father. Selwyn was an excellent coach.”
“Position?”
He flushes slightly.
“Hooker.”
Brienne manages not to spit bitter lemon all over him.
“I like her.” Tyrion polishes glasses. He doesn’t have to, but he likes getting Shae to bend over and get them out of the dishwasher. She insists on these tiny skirts that show acres of lovely Lorathi-toned thigh. Heels. Sometimes Tyrion has to drag her into the cellar and just do things that send their heads spinning, and are possibly illegal in The Reach.
Everything fun is illegal in The Reach. Boring place.
“Hmm?”
“Brienne. She’s going to piss everyone off, and it will be beautiful.”
“Oh. Brienne.”
“Stop staring at Stannis, Dav.” He kicks out with an expensive hand-made shoe, catching his favourite barman on the elbow.
“I like watching his expression when he gets towards critical. He’s gone purple.” Davos grins, easily. “He’s hilarious and has no idea.” There is a warmth to his tone, though, since he and the lawyer get on like a house on fire most of the time. Tyrion knows that there is a little more than friendship, for Davos at least, and his favourite and only barman has worse taste in men than Tormund has in women. Stannis Baratheon? Really?
“D’you think his heart will stand the stress of having to tell my dearest brother he’s sacked?”
Davos pauses. “Poor Jaime.”
“Poor nothing. It’s his fault he’s an alcoholic.”
“He lost his hand, Tyrion. It’s a massive thing.”
The dwarf gives his barman a strangely measured look, opens his mouth as if to say something - and no one knows about Jaime and Cersei outside of the immediate family, though Oberyn is the sort to have an inkling - before he sees Shae bend over again and forgets.
Tyrion’s mind is like a Dornish railway; one track and filthy.
“Maybe Brienne’ll whip Jaime into shape? He is bloody amazing at all this when he’s sober.”
“Whips?” Tyrion perks.
“Beric’ll lend you one, I’m sure.”
“Jaime?”
They voluntold Oberyn to go and find Lannister since the Dornishman is entirely unshockable. Intelligence suggests he has barricaded himself in the disabled toilet.
“What?”
“Are you alive in there?”
“No. I’m dead. This is my ghost.” A pause. “WooooOOooooooh.”
“Foolish boy. Come, I have found you a new and exciting beer.”
“...what beer?”
“It is Dornish.”
“Dornes can’t make beer. Wine, yes, and sometimes an alright cider, but your beer tastes like you take a piss in a bath and then bottle it.”
If Jaime hopes for a reaction, he does not receive the one expected. There is a reason that Oberyn is sent on these sorts of important missions.
“Then come and drink my piss from my bathwater, pretty boy.”
“...fuck you, Oberyn.”
The door unlocks.
“Lannister.”
“Baratheon.”
Jaime is beautiful. Always has been. Always will be, even without his right hand and that scarred stump ending at his wrist.
Brienne, when she hit puberty like a hammer to a plate of jelly, had a ridiculously glamorous poster of him on her wall. Jaime Lannister, in his white Crownlands rugby strip, in full flow; hair flying, a curious and triumphant smirk across his gorgeous face. They won the Grand Slam that year, what, ten or twelve years before, and it was all his doing. The greatest player of his generation, possibly of all time. Other girls had pop stars, or gorgeous Essosi and Westerosi actors. Ponies. The young Brienne adhered to men weighing over thirteen stone, with muscles, and shoulders, and thighs. The sorts of men who could take her down and wrestle, possibly covered in mud. The sort that sometimes she stared at and wished, when she was young and confused and driven mad by herself, that she wanted to be.
Her flowering was a strange and oddly masculine place. No pretty boys in eyeliner, no androgyny - apart from herself, obviously. Her puberty was driven by rugby, sport, and being just as good as the boys who taunted her for her face and height. And lack of tits. Always lack of tits.
“This is Miss Tarth.”
“The woman part is a surprise. I just thought you were a really unfortunate bloke.” Slurring, just a little, but enough.
Her face turns pinker than she’d like, and the prickling heat of being fifteen and mocked by gorgeous rugby-playing boys who seemed personally upset she wasn’t pretty or delicate or girly, rises. Lannister has, inadvertently or not, stabbed her straight in that soft fleshy and unfortunately tender core she calls her heart.
“Jaime-” hisses Stannis, and that jaw grinds further.
“Didn’t your Mummy tell you to always say the truth, Stannis? I thought you liked the truth.”
“You are drunk.”
“And you are a prick, but,” and he grins, sloppily, “in the morning I shall be mostly sober.”
“Stop stealing quotations from dead Hands of the King!”
He laughs, and is unfairly lovely even when drunk, pouring half the bottle of microbrewed Dornish beer down his throat.
Brienne hates him. She hates that she has a visceral reaction to someone so awful, just because he is ridiculously handsome, talented, worshipped. He is a god. He is the most spectacular man in Westeros. He is a horrible drunk, with a mean streak, who is obviously wishing to self-destruct in the most spectacular of ways, not caring if he takes others out in the resulting explosion.
However, the nuclear meltdown comes from another direction.
“I have had it up to here with you!” Stannis stands, hands fists and entire body shudderingly tense, and he is almost as tall as Jaime. “You’re out! You are fired! You are never setting foot in my team ever again. Your career is over, you are through! I refuse to have you polluting my side. You are history, Lannister!”
“And who are you going to get to coach this pile of shit?” Another of those laughs, a dangerous edge somewhere that shrieks like nails over chalkboards. “Like you’ll get someone good, Stannis.”
“You’re looking at your replacement.”
“What? The wench?” His laughter reaches hysterical levels.
She breaks, stands, and his realisation that she has two inches on him is smugly pleasing.
“My name,” and her voice is low and angry and mostly controlled. “Is Brienne.”
Ramsay stalks past, considers smacking Theon on the arse because those jeans are really tight and he is only human, and settles on a barstool.
Everyone thinks he is weird, and dangerous, and probably a psycho. He was sent off three times last season for biting. Once wasn’t even the opposition, and he ended up attached to Dolorous Edd like a lamprey. Rumour is that Ramsay possibly has locking jaws. Edd didn’t seem surprised that it happened to him.
Everything happens to Dolorous Edd.
The second time was Loras Tyrell, and Ramsay drank a whole bottle of mouthwash in horror. It got him so hammered he was sick all over Edd. Again.
“Usual, Bolton?”
Davos doesn’t take his shit. The barman is a sort of father figure to a lot of the team, but he doesn’t tolerate any of Ramsay’s nonsense. Not after the unfortunate incident with someone who dared grope Theon, a pool cue, a bottle of brandy, and a lighter. He got banned for a month, and a really good black eye courtesy of Sandor Clegane, who acts as bouncer when things become a little rough.
One diet Coke.
Drinking dulls the senses. He needs to be alert to others going near his property.
Theon looks entirely fuckable.
Theon always looks entirely fuckable.
Sometimes he thinks about kidnapping him and keeping him in a little sex dungeon somewhere. Not too tasteless; sex swing, medical equipment, some sort of wall-based bondage device. The usual. Roose would give him the cash, probably would recommend a supplier for the equipment. Ramsay, even if he dresses like a gay leather convention, has a huge collection of Doc Marten boots, and likes vintage punk t-shirts, is loaded. Or at least his Dad is.
“Alright?” someone asks.
Beric is about ten feet tall, and has shoulders like a bull. He seems entirely unkillable. Thoros, the team’s doctor, says things about broken necks and death every so often, but up Dondarrion gets, a bit more battered, a bit more concussed, and yet still clinging on to a life that really beats the shit out of him. He was discharged from the Army for freaking people out after he got blown up by a random UED and walked away swearing his bag off.
“Who hit Theon?”
“New coach. She’s immense.”
“She?”
He nods at a shockingly ugly but insanely well built blonde woman who is having a slanging match with Jaime Fucking Lannister. Amazing muscle definition along her freckled forearms. Ramsay knows he could totally take her in a fight. She looks too sensible to fight dirty.
“I will avenge my Greyjoy.”
“Little twat smacked her on the bum, Ramsay.” Mild and zen, as always. If Beric were more laid back he’d be watching the world swim by from a comfortable horizontal position. Probably with fluffy pillows.
“I will allow her to live this day.”
“Good lad.” A massive hand ruffles his hair, then an arm loops across Ramsay’s shoulders companionably. “‘Nother Coke?”
He likes Beric, who is cool enough to enjoy Ramsay for what he is. Outside of the pub they are playmates in a most interesting way. When he is Lord of All, and the others beg before him, Beric will be his Hand.
“Um, sorry to disturb, Mr. Baratheon, but-”
He has never visited The Mayflower before, because Willas Tyrell is more at home in upmarket wine bars, or elegant restaurants. Having been exposed to such things at such a young age, it is difficult for him to break the habit of his, or his sister’s, lifetime. Margaery would have his hide if he went anywhere charging less than twenty five dragons for a bottle of beaujolais. This is the sort of pub that doesn’t name the wines; you have red, or white. Rose isn’t even an option.
“Yes, Mr. Tyrell?”
They are both partners in the same firm, yet Willas always defers to Stannis. Everyone else does, too. He exudes Authority.
“I’m sorry, those files that you mentioned were corrupted and I couldn’t get through to you, so I thought I should come and ask, sorry, sorry to interrrupt. Sorry.”
He flushes, glances away, and is very aware of being stared at by several very large men.
“Sorry,” he adds, just for good measure.
This is Enemy Territory. His little brother plays for their local team back home, and was rather badly mauled by the King’s Landing fullback last season. His tie is the delicate rose-pink and dark purple of Highgarden, because Margaery bought it for him, and Willas, who prefers sensible aran knit jumpers and smart slacks, isn’t very good with dressing up. Sometimes he feels like a toddler wearing his father’s suits. Not that Mace wears suits. Mace wears rugby shirts and trainers most of the time.
“Davos,” Stannis calls, “bring a port and lemon for Mr. Tyrell, would you?”
The man at the bar, who is possibly edging into silver fox territory, if silver foxes were tattooed, bearded, and decidedly working-class, grabs a glass.
“Sit.” He immediately does what Baratheon orders, tucking himself neatly onto a stool, resting his cane against the wall. The man seems to be intently listening to two blond people, one of whom may be female, arguing viciously over the finer points of rugby coaching. The male seems very drunk. The blond(e?) has incredible legs, and the sort of thighs that are normally found on the larger breed of winger. The sort that come from the Summer Isles and do that war dance before each game.
“For you,” murmurs a voice in his ear, like the vocal embodiment of chocolate and velvet, and his drink is placed before him by possibly the most sexy man ever to grace any pub anywhere, ever.
Willas is susceptible to handsome men with accents. Not that he ever acts upon his daydreams, not since Grandmother would go absolutely mad if her darling favourite touched anything apart from some poor high society girl with good hips for popping out many Willas-fathered sprogs. Fear of Olenna explains many of Willas’ actions. It means he never gets to have sex with handsome men with accents, and that is a terrible thing.
“Oh. Thank you.”
“Such bone structure.”
“Um. Yes. I have bones?”
The grin is insatiable, and Willas finds his own mouth tugging into a small, unwilling, smile.
“Would you like another, sweet boy, of approximately eight inches?”
The port and lemon goes everywhere.
“Oberyn,” Mr. Baratheon sighs. “Stop leching on my workforce, for the love of the Seven, and go and get a cloth.”
“So Ygritte says that her and Jeyne are going out with Gilly, Sam?”
“They’re going to go and see a film, I think. The new one with the woman in the big pants?”
“Why can’t we go and see a film?”
“We’re not girls, we don’t go and see rom-coms.”
“Why not? I like rom-coms?”
“Sam, you’re a girl.”
“I’m not!”
“Are, too! With those boobs-”
“Oi, you’re just jealous because they’re bigger than Jeyne’s."
“Hey, I’m your cousin, why do you always protect Sam? I’ve got better hair.
“Jon has the best hair.”
“My hair is epic. Jon’s is boring. Red hair is the best hair."
“Well, we have to agree with that, really, don’t we?”
“Yeah. Bugger. Damn you, Robb.”
“We all agree then as I have the best hair as I’m a redhead, and since you are going out with redheads, you must fancy my hair?”
“I don’t fancy your hair. It’s stupid, and not long. Gilly’s hair is all long and flowy.”
“Ygritte is going to shave the sides of hers, she saw this painting in Art History and wants to go full Wildling.”
“...is she awesome in bed?”
“You have no idea, Robb. No idea whatsoever.”
Jaime wants to hit her.
She is infuriating.
And she is taller than him. Bitch.
And she has the prettiest blue eyes.
He is so drunk.
She’s not that ugly when he’s drunk. Rose tinted spectacles for the win!
No tits though.
Cersei has awesome tits.
Shit.
His expression changes, he feels it as his muscles twitch, and Brienne pauses in her rant about how strength training should be fully available to all, not just concentrated on the members of the team who need power, and how his cardio is all wrong, and how some of the team should be on diets, and-.
“Fuck this,” he says, teeth glinting.
Passing out comes as something as a blessing. It stops him thinking of his bitch sister, who he loves, just for a little while longer.
Tormund stares at the passed out Lannister, and shrugs.
“Get him upstairs, aye, bossman?”
“Yes.” Tyrion holds a jug of cold water, obviously wondering whether to throw it over Jaime or force his head into the vessel and drown him out of pity. The big Wildling, and he’s massive, scoops Lannister up easily enough. He’s used to it. Always him, Beric, or Sandor deal with the bodily effects of Jaime’s wee drinking problem. He and his front row bros got this.
“Who’s the girl?” he asks, taking a swig of his point as if he’s not balancing a whole man on one shoulder with practiced ease. Jaime flops about like a fish, quietly making snoring noises.
“Your new coach.”
“I can tackle her? Fanfuckingbrilliant! Looking forward to getting to do that.” From a distance, from the rear, she looks just his type.
“Your taste in women is appalling, Tor.” Giantsbane always goes for women who may be able to beat him at close range fighting. He likes muscles, and the ability to possibly strangle large angry mammals with bare hands. He is a large man, and he needs a large mate to compliment his lumberjack-style masculinity. The redhead likes flannel shirts and cargo trousers, big boots. Someone called him a hipster once, and he spent the rest of the week giggling; hipsters do not tend to be firemen. Tormund is the one they send in if the battering rams don’t work.
“You can keep your tiny wee things that break if you turn wrong in bed. Robust is what you’re wanting. Strong and tall and good for breeding lots of little warriors, you see? She’s a fine woman.” He catches her eye, grins broadly, and-
Stranger, she is bloody gorgeous. Those eyes. Those shoulders. The ugly/sexy thing she has going on. He doesn’t know whether to fight, or mate, or both, at the same time. For a moment it seems as if time slows, and the entire world is concentrated in that woman who blinks confusedly at him. Her broken nose is possibly the most erotic thing that Tor has seen since he discovered women’s wrestling.
“Stop staring,” Tyrion says.
“Am not.” He is.
“Are too. Possibly salivating there.” Definitely is.
“Think if I stole her and ran north of the Wall I can claim her in the old Wildling tradition?”
“Tormund, this is 2008. She’ll get a restraining order on you. Or kick you in the bollocks with impunity. Probably both.”
“Well fuck.” Sadly.
He drags Jaime upstairs, deposits him in the usual position where he will not inhale his own vomit, and wanders off to find his front row bros.
“Bro.” Tormund nods.
“Bro.” Beric returns the nod.
Brofist.
“Where’s Sandor?”
“Girlfriend.” Meaningfully.
“Redhead though. Good lad.”
Beric snorts. “She’s tall, got that going for her.” Sansa is too pretty for Tormund. She is delicate and breedy, and has beautiful hair that would get all knotted and gnarled up at Hardhome. Beric understands. He has his own tastes. The front row bros are all sorts of fucked up to the others. Sandor is a wreck, facially and emotionally. Tormund has his Wildling thing and deflects everything with humour. Beric and his insane private life which involves too much Ramsay. “Not muscular enough.”
“He likes ‘em little, don’t he?”
“Mmm.”
“Speakin’ of muscles and little, how’s Ramsay?”
Beric shrugs. “All over fucking Greyjoy like syphillis.”
“Probably got it, knowing Theon. Right whore.” He punches Beric, an odd sympathy. The bros share a lot. Even Sandor opens up, a little, though the rest of him is directed like some lazer guided missile at Robb Stark’s hot sister. They know about what happened to his face. Beric and Tormund gang up on Gregor. Bro justice.
“Huge cock.”
“Isn’t the size, ‘tis how you wield it. Though I’m fucking massive, man, obviously. Ramsay a size queen?”
“Fuck knows. Want to ask him yourself?”
“Nope, rather have me balls still attached. Weird little cunt.”
“He’s alright.”
“You just want to fuck him since you are also a weird cunt.” Smirking.
“You know it’s not like that, Tor. Just, y’know. Similar interests. Got to look out for a brother, yeah?”
“Bastard BDSM crowd.”
“Don’t knock it til you try it.”
“You’re not coming near me with whips.”
“Nah, it’d be you doing the whipping.” Idly, as if this is a normal and everyday conversation between two extremely large and well-muscled men who happen to play next to each other in a rugby team. Friends. They are, after all. Before this and after this.
Tormund weighs it up, evenly, then shakes his head. “Nah, you’re good. Got me eye on something else.”
“Yeah?”
“Brienne.” The name pours from Tormund’s mouth like honey, a strange reverence to his tone.
“Love at first sight, huh?”
“She’s perfect. Brave, and big, and so frigging strong. I want to wrestle her and take her back north as a prize.”
“She’ll get a restraining order on you.”
“Aye, Tyrion said.”
He nudges Tormund in the ribs. “Can always try wooing aforementioned She-Hulk?”
“Like?”
“Present or some shit, whatever women like.” Not that Beric does that sort of thing. He has the emotional range of a toad.
Tor’s eyes widen and he grins behind his magnificent beard. Several girls cross their legs thoughtfully. “Good woman like that needs something like her.”
“Bulldog puppies are expensive.”
“Tosser.”
“Twat.”
“Where do you go and buy weapons these days?”
“...what sort of weapon?”
“Flail. Morningstar. Big fuck-off kind of Wildling sword.”
“Tor, that’s romantic for you. Ask Bronn?”
“Aye. I’d give her me family sword, but Mum would slaughter me.”
“You are weird.”
“Says the man who likes being whipped by psychopaths. She’s fucking lovely,” he sighs, staring at Brienne as he takes another sup of ale. Again her eye catches Tor’s, again she turns very red and turns back to Stannis Baratheon who is quietly talking at a young man who keeps looking at Oberyn Martell like he either wants to run away or fling himself into the randy bugger’s arms and beg to be taken over the bar or something.
His big redheaded friend retreats to silence, watching Brienne with an intensity that might set her on fire. Luckily he isn't a Rh'llor worshipper like Beric. Otherwise who knows what might happen?
Beric takes it upon himself to retreat back to Ramsay and offer to buy his favourite psycho another Coke. Least he knows where is is with Ramsay. Usually on a cross somewhere being beaten senseless, just how he likes it.
“On for later?” he asks.
The strange pale eyes consider for a moment, flick to where Theon has his tongue down a woman’s throat and his hands up her skirt, then he nods tersely. It’s easy enough to put his arm around Ramsay, ruffle his hair, have the dark head rest against his shoulder. Feels homey, sort of. Not as good as when the candle wax and nipple clamps are flying, and a bit fucking soppy, but yeah, nice.
“Mr. Baratheon?”
“Miss Tarth?”
“A man keeps looking at me.” He is huge, and bearded, and very, almost obscenely, ginger. She feels her face turn scarlet, heat pooling in her cheeks, and concentrates on Stannis.
“Oh, that’s just Tormund Giantsbane. Ignore him, he has terrible manners.”
“That’s quite an interesting surname.”
“Wildling extraction. Not a bad tight-head prop, but the entire front row are just stubborn. Tell them to do something, and they would rather drink and ‘brofist,’ whatever that even means. Clegane is the best of them, but he seems to have found himself a girlfriend of all things. Dondarrion, the tattooed one at the bar, plays my old position.”
Stannis refuses to say hooker again, with obvious good reason. Dondarrion winds an arm over the very angry and muscular young man with the creepy eyes; there are full inked sleeves on both those arms, burning fire from knuckle to underneath his tight teeshirt. Lots of scars. The angry young man grunts something, glares at a lean and sarcastically pert youth buried tongue deep in the mouth of a willing girl, and thumps his head onto Beric’s shoulder.
She peeks once more, and Giantsbane has pretty good teeth for a front row inasmuch none are obviously missing. He grins, salutes her with his beer bottle. Tormund drinks proper northern ale, the sort that looks like a cross between a peat bog and a slaughterhouse.
Brienne is not quite sure what to make of him. At all. He seems quite keen? The last time a man tried to seduce her, she broke his nose with her elbow. If this is another bet-
“How are you finding King’s Landing, Miss Tarth?” asks the overly-polite man with the glasses, still slightly sticky from port and lemon being flung all over the place.
“Fine, thank you, Mr. Tyrell. Are you related to Mace Tyrell?”
“He is my father.” A slight tension about the man’s eyes suggests that was possibly not the best of questions to ask.
“Excellent number eight,” Stannis interjects.
“My entire family adores rugby. Sorry.” He apologises constantly. Brienne thinks he seems rather like a nervous greyhound puppy that needs the loo. “I did, until I got stood on by Gregor Clegane. Smashed my knee up, and I’ve been limping ever since.”
“He got you, too?” Really, Gregor Clegane should be banned. However, the only referee to send him off ended up with concrete shoes and was found four months later in the harbour.
“I was eleven. Not a bad outside half, and you know we love our outside halves in The Reach.” He smiles, wistful. “Unfortunately I met the Unstoppable Force known as Gregor Clegane, who was in sixth form and massive even then, and that was that. They rebuilt me, they had the technology, but alas, I am unable to play any more.”
“And now we have to suffer your younger brother.” Stannis scowls, Willas flails.
“I am sorry for introducing him to Renly. Their relationship-”
“I don’t particularly care about that,” Stannis snaps. “I am just furious that my brother decided playing to play for Highgarden instead of King’s. No family loyalty, whatsoever. The cheek of Loras, coming in and seducing the captain of the team, in order to have him play for the Roses. Absolutely criminal, Willas. If I was a lesser man I would have blocked your promotion to partner for such a slight.”
“Sorry.” Every time he says it, Willas Tyrell obviously means it.