Chapter Text
Brienne quite enjoyed weddings, as a rule. She hadn’t been to many, but she always found herself romanced by the pomp and ceremony. There was something hopeful about weddings. As she was unlikely to ever have one of her own, she savored the details of each celebration she was invited to.
Today was proving to be an exception. The bride was absolutely stunning, true. The groom was one of those tall, dark and handsome types, but his cheeks were flushed already and he kept running appreciative glances over the women in the bridal party. His brothers and groomsmen looked like they were attending a funeral rather than a wedding, and none of the bridesmaids would stray too close to the bride in fear of incurring her wrath for some imagined failing or another. Even the guests seemed restless, and Brienne felt herself straightening the hem of her dress more often than was strictly necessary. Not even the view of the wide sea from the flower-strewn terraces of Casterly Rock could get her to relax, though close proximity to water usually cured any of Brienne’s ills. She nabbed a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and tried to focus on the waves instead of the edgy guests and furious bride.
She didn’t hear anyone approach but became aware that she’d been joined at the terrace railing when a voice piped up at her elbow.
“Rather a poor performance by the principle actors, wouldn’t you say?” asked Tyrion Lannister. He also had a champagne glass but he drained his in two long gulps. Unlike the groom, the rapid alcohol consumption seemed not to touch him. He turned sharp, mismatched eyes up to her face.
“Brienne, isn’t it? From Tarth?”
“That’s right. You’re Tyrion.”
“To then endless disappointment of my sweet sire.” Tyrion’s grin was cutting, but it softened as he continued to study her face. “You’re here on behalf of the groom, I take it?”
Brienne nodded, trying not to frown as she thought of Robert Baratheon. He was bombastic and charming, yes…but there was a cold, cruel streak in him too. Family loyalties or no, she couldn’t bring herself to like him much. She’d only attended as a representative of her father. Selwyn Tarth was back on the island in his “sickbed,” though she very much doubted he was alone. Both she and Tyrion glanced back toward Robert as he swayed through the reception with wandering fingers at the ready.
“I’m not sure which of them I should pity more.”
Brienne blinked in surprise and looked down at her unexpected companion. “But Cersei is—”
“My sister, yes.” Tyrion let out a bitter chuckle. “She’s also a bit of a harpy. They ought to make each other perfectly miserable. I’ll just happen to have a front row seat for the whole mummer’s show.”
Brienne didn’t ask why, if the bride and groom could hardly stand each other already, they were getting married. Political marriages had grown rare in the past century, but they still happened. This was especially true when the families involved had illustrious names like Baratheon, Lannister or Targaryen. Brienne wasn’t sure if she could have forced herself to marry a man she didn’t love no matter what the reason. Not that there had ever been even the hint of an offer…
“Perhaps if there are children,” Brienne said, turning her gaze to Cersei. Her hair was a shining crown of gold but her eyes were as cold as the emeralds they resembled. She didn’t look like the kind of woman that would embrace motherhood, but appearances could be misleading.
Tyrion shook his head. “Gods help any offspring the two of them might create. That’s of course if Robert doesn’t drink himself impotent.”
They watched him grope a bridesmaid. Tyrion rolled his eyes and laughed grimly as Brienne murmured, “I don’t think impotence will be an issue.” Before he could retort, however, they were joined by a third party.
Unlike Tyrion, the quick imbibing of champagne had definitely influenced Jaime. His eyes were muzzy and he wavered a little as if the world kept tilting a few degrees beneath his feet. Nervous, reckless energy poured off him in waves. He brushed past Brienne without acknowledging her: his entire focus seemed to be on getting to his brother before the alcohol in his system dampened his obvious rage.
“I should kill him,” he said.
“While it would liven up this sad little soiree to no end, I hardly think a wedding is the appropriate venue for murder,” Tyrion replied. He didn’t sound particularly alarmed at his brother’s vehemence. Brienne wondered if the elder Lannister brother was always so headstrong.
“He’s a—he’s drunkenbas—I hate him.” Jaime’s words were so slurred that she had trouble deciphering them, but Tyrion had no such hardship.
“Now Jaime, is that any way to speak of your new good-brother?” he asked, and though he sounded amused his words crackled with underlying malice. Jaime glared down at him with a jaw clenched so hard it was a wonder his teeth didn’t crack from the pressure. He seemed to be on the verge of saying something else, but Tyrion gestured to Brienne before he could.
“Allow me to introduce—” he started as Jaime spun around to peer at her, but before he could say her name, his brother’s features contorted.
“Gods,” he said as he took her in. “You’re tall. And so ug—”
“Unfortunately,” Tyrion said, cutting off the inevitable, “Jaime turns into a beast when he’s drunk. I’d beg forgiveness on his behalf, but he doesn’t deserve it so I won’t bother. Jaime, this is Brienne Tarth, not that you’ll remember that come morning. Go drink some water before that civil tongue of yours earns you a black eye.”
Tyrion wrapped a hand around Brienne’s elbow and pulled her away from his drunken oaf of a brother. After a moment, he did apologize and tried to explain that Jaime was a much better man than her first impression may have indicated. Brienne listened because Tyrion had been kind and amusing company, but she couldn’t believe that Jaime had many redeeming qualities. At least none other than his obvious physical beauty. For some people, that might have been enough to smooth over any bad feelings, but Brienne was tired of forgiving people for their unkindness.
“Don’t worry about it,” Brienne said. “He’s not the first.”
“If he hadn’t been so drunk—”
“It’s forgotten,” she assured him. “But…I’m sorry Tyrion, but I don’t think I like your brother very much.”
“Sometimes,” Tyrion muttered drily as he shot a dark look over his shoulder at Jaime, “I’m not sure I do either.”
- - -
As the reception continued and Jaime’s condition deteriorated—along with Robert’s and Tyrion’s—Brienne began to pay attention to the whispers. The Tyrells murmured about something unnatural about the Lannisters, though they had heaped compliments on Cersei and congratulated Tywin for orchestrating such a fine match. The Starks had been more reserved when it came to their hosts, but amongst themselves they were candid. It was from Arya that she heard the word incest whispered for the first time. She had been glaring through the entire ceremony and reception, and it was clear that Sansa had been doing everything within her power to keep Arya from storming out of the party in disgust.
Brienne glanced back at Jaime. He was still standing near the railing of the terrace, isolating himself with a ferocious glare or a snarled insult when anyone drifted too close. Was that the reason he was so obviously against this marriage? Because he was Cersei’s lover?
A deep shiver of revulsion ran down Brienne’s spine. No, she thought, she definitely didn’t like Jaime Lannister. But at least she wouldn’t have to see him again.