chapter one l chapter two l chapter three l chapter four l chapter five l chapter six l now on AO3
At the end of their first month in the Stormlands, a letter appeared from King’s Landing. Bronn, no doubt curious, brought it to the breakfast table, where he might be able to linger and ascertain its contents. A savvy move that Tyrion could applaud if it were not for the fact Cersei and Jaime could not help but notice the royal seal.
At its appearance, Cersei fell uncharacteristically silent. Though at the rate she was straining her neck, she’d be out of commission for the upcoming week’s assemblies. His dear brother pretended he had gone blind, deaf, and dumb, but Jaime was not leaving either, showcasing his interest in the missive. Tyrion would have preferred to retire to read it in peace; he already guessed at its contents, but there was nothing to be done other than to face the music. Cracking the seal, Tyrion’s suspicions were confirmed within the first few words, and the following ones compounded his headache.
Outside, the evening clouds had not departed, and the trees were whispering to each other in the breeze. A storm was imminent, not one of the gentle spring rains that had come and gone in their few weeks here, but a proper tempest, the true namesake of the region. Judging the entire thing to be more trouble than it was worth, Tyrion tossed the letter away. It landed on top of the porridge and, under the weight of the royal seal, began to sink. Cersei shot her cousin a filthy look before ordering one of the footmen to fish it out for her. Receiving it with the utmost care, Cersei devoured the soggy paper’s contents. A smile bloomed across her face until her smile was the only bright spot in the breakfast parlor.
When Cersei finally deigned to lower the letter, a footman rushed forward to offer her a serviette. “But this is wonderful,” Cersei said, seemingly unaware she was daintily wiping her hands on the footman’s jacket and not the offered napkin. To think, the king—here of all places!”
Jaime stirred to life. “What fortuitous reason do we have to thank for such an honor?”
Tyrion rubbed his forehead, running his stubby fingers across the odd ridges of his skull, letting the familiar sensation soothe his threatening headache. “He claims to visit Lord Stannis, but no doubt he has heard father’s succeeded in running me off finally.”
Jaime did not argue. Everyone knew there was little love lost between King Robert Baratheon, first of his name, and Tywin Lannister. The vaults of King’s Landing were rumored to have long since run dry, but perhaps with a son of Casterly Rock at his side…
Cersei stood, pressing her skirt down, her eyes staring past both her cousins, fixated on something far in the distance that only she could see. “I’ll have to send word home at once. I barely brought anything suitable for court-”
“Were you not still planning to depart within the next fortnight?”
“Don’t be ridiculous!” Cersei snapped, this time directing her glare at Jaime. “The King is coming to Storm’s End, and he will, of course, call here.” Her eyes darted to Tyrion. “You’ll need a lady to lead the house, plan the ball-”
“Ball?”
“Host His Highness, and well he mentions his Kingsguard will be attending. No mention of any courtiers, but of course, the usual toadies will be in attendance- “
“Cersei, if you would like to play lady of the hall, by all means, my home is at your disposal, but do me the very great courtesy of not looking like the cat who caught the canary. It’s very disconcerting.”
“Only you would have the king send him a personal letter and look as if the world was coming to an end.” Tyrion did not think his brother looked any happier about this development, but Cersei seemed determined to ignore Jaime. “If you will excuse me-” and with that, she swanned out of the breakfast parlor, looking all the world as if she already had a crown upon her brow.
“She’ll be insufferable,” Tyrion lamented. “Robert’s no tactician, but he’s not going to ignore a lioness laying down on her back for him-”
“Tyrion,” Jaime hissed. “Have a care for how you talk about our cousin.”
“You should be glad she’s not eyeing your neck for the noose at the moment,” Tyrion continued, tearing into the pastry to find it still warm and steaming. The manor might be considerably smaller than the Rock, but he quite enjoyed the new proximity to his kitchens, even if his belt protested. “Perhaps Robert's visit will allow you more time to pursue your interests without hindrance?”
Jaime’s eyes darkened in displeasure. “There is nothing of interest in this desolate corner of Westeros. I am only here because of you.”
“Interesting,” Tyrion continued, “I, for one, have thought you rather intrigued by our resident beauty.”
Tyrion had not seen it at first. He had been so taken with the odd Miss Tarth, finding her to be one of the truly most unfortunate people he had ever seen besides himself, that he had almost missed the way his brother’s eyes tracked her around the room, how Jaime moved after her when she passed by as if caught in her wake and drawn after her despite himself. He was not sure if his brother was even aware of his interest, if not for the odd way his lips quirked whenever Miss Tarth was mentioned.
“You are referring to which renowned Stormland beauty, Tyrion? Miss Tarth or Miss Baratheon?”
Tyrion chuckled. “Cersei has had your ear again, I fear. Miss Baratheon is not yet eight and ten. Her brush with death has added to her character, but I am not one for unaged wine.”
Jaime considered him across the table. ”And Miss Tarth?”
Tyrion grinned. “You know I am a great lover of beauty.”
His brother’s lips thinned, face darkening into a pensive glower until he looked just like their father. “Surely you of all people would think to look past appearances-”
“Have you?”
Jaime’s eyes shuttered, and he looked pointedly away to the storm gathering outside. “I have barely spoken a word to the party in question.”
“On the contrary, I believe you’ve spoken more to her than anyone else in the Stormlands.”
“If I happen to stand by the only other person who has less desire to speak than myself-”
“Happen? Jaime, you followed her around the length of the ballroom last week.”
Jaime shot up from his seat. “I should make haste if I want to get a ride in before the storm-”
“Jaime-” But his brother was already gone, leaving him alone with the great feast. Tyrion looked over at the footman nearest to the table, his cravat still smeared with oatmeal. “Do we have any blackberry jam?”
chapter one l chapter two l chapter three l chapter four
The Stormlands were, like most of the families who had settled there, rather unremarkable. The rocky region lay nestled between the more wealthy Crownlands to the north and the more fertile Reach to the west. Most ever bothered to cross the mountain range that separated the regions, and to the south was nothing but the Dornish desert, as inhospitable as its people from what Septa Roelle had taught her.
It was a rugged land, as large and sprawling, pitted and scarred as she was. It would never be considered beautiful but it was what it was. One either learned to love it or they hated it and Brienne had adopted the same practice to her own life.
Many a day, Brienne went riding. Usually to train, but other days, just as an excuse to stretch her legs and clear her mind. But today, fresh from a wash after her morning bout with the Colonel, Brienne set out on the path towards the closet manor home, Storm’s End, to pay a call upon her most intimate of friends—her only friend to speak plainly.
Storm’s End was perched upon Durran’s Point, the southernmost stop of the King’s Road. Here, the elder of King Robert’s younger brothers had made his home nearly a decade ago now. Brienne had been too young to attend but her father had told her stories of the great retinue that had arrived with Stannis Baratheon and his young wife and how all of the Stormlands had celebrated for seven days straight before King Robert had returned north to his iron throne.
If the people of the Stormlands had hoped for a lively royal in their midst, they were sadly disappointed. Stannis Baratheon lacked the love of pomp and party that his two brothers had inherited, preferring the solemn and dreary coasts of Storm’s End to the other manors he may have claimed for his own as the King’s brother and heir.
As they arrived at the manor’s gates, Septa Roelle turned her nose up. “Oh, Lady Selyse is at home,” she remarked in the same tone she pointed out mice droppings. Septa Roelle liked few people but she actively disliked even fewer, but somehow Lady Selyse Baratheon had never risen high in the Septa's mind.
The Bartheons only had the one daughter, an intelligent, sweet young debutant of fifteen who though Brienne's junior, was more mature than any of the other ladies in the region. She was also, like Brienne, no stranger to cruelty at the sake of her appearance.
As tall and thin as both her parents, Shireen had the Baratheon bold blue eyes and the equally strong, jutting jaw which may have made her handsome if not partnered with her mother’s large ears and aquiline nose.
Fate had taken a hand in Shireen’s appearance as well. While still in the cradle, Shireen had been afflicted with grayscale. While she had recovered, she had been left with gray and black mottled scars all across her left cheek and down to her neck.
The more superstitious families avoided the Baratheons, believing the disease lay dormant in the skin and could be reawoken with a single sneeze. Folly, according to all the maesters but still even the more opportunistic fortune hunters steered clear of the young Lady Baratheon. Septa Roelle had also been conflicted. On the one hand, her charge rubbing elbows with royalty, and on the other, a disease so deadly that its mere name was considered dangerous.
Thankfully, royal blood, diseased or not, won out in the end, and the two unfortunates became fast friends. Shireen liked the loyal and true Brienne Tarth, finding her refreshing and more intelligent than any of the other ladies her mother tried to foster upon her, while Brienne liked the quiet solitude of Shireen’s company. Shireen never stared or ogled or winced and, on numerous occasions, put herself pointedly between Brienne and her tormentors at assemblies so no one would jokingly ask Brienne the Beauty for a dance.
Shireen had been in attendance at the assembly though her mother had kept her occupied with both Lannister brothers. “Brienne tells me you were the first to dance with Mr. Lannister,” Septa Roelle praised Shireen as they all sat down in the sitting room over a cup of tea.
Lady Baratheon beamed at the accomplishment, but Shireen was quick to deflect any praise. “Yes, but he danced with nearly every lady present. Though, he did ask after you, Brienne.”
Septa Roelle perked up at this. “Oh?”
“Yes, but it was later in the evening, and poor Mr. Tarth had already called for the chaise. Mr. Lannister did seem rather disappointed.”
“My departure, if truly noticed, was nothing but a slight inconvenience, if that.” Brienne insisted lest Septa Roelle get the wrong idea.
“Oh, but he was most sincere,” Shireen protested. “He mentioned you had spoken for a moment and while he was rudely whisked away, he had great hopes of the two of you finishing the conversation before the night came to an end.”
“I dare say he’ll have to get used to disappointment,” Brienne murmured into her cup.
Shireen heard it and gave her a knowing smile, but Septa Roelle had already moved on to the next eligible bachelor. “Is there any truth to this rumor that the elder Lannister is set to marry the cousin that was in attendance?”
“It was obvious to even that blind old bat Whent,” Lady Baratheon confirmed. “Ms. Lannister did deign to dance with some of the local gentlemen but never more than once. As for the Lion of Lannister, he was most disagreeable. I was in his company for nearly the entire evening, and he barely uttered a word. Most unfortunate. Good breeding does not always result in good manners.”
Brienne could only imagine what Jaime Lannister had thought of Selyse Baratheon shadowing his every move. His unpleasant mood became less of a mystery.
“The youngest Mr. Lannister told me his brother is not much for conversation among strangers but is a remarkably agreeable fellow among his intimate acquaintances,” Shireen contributed.
“Simply making excuses for his family,” her mother replied. “It was clear to the whole assembly that he is a sinfully prideful man. Comely or not, I’ll be happy to see the back of him.”
“I do not see why he should not be proud. He is the most handsome man I have ever seen, and his family is reported to have more wealth than even Uncle Robert’s treasury. If our roles were reversed, I would surely be proud, wouldn’t you, mother?”
Selyse Baratheon bristled at the suggestion. “I certainly would not. I am not so vain as that, child!”
“Vanity is something different entirely,” Septa Roelle corrected. “A person may be proud without being vain. Pride is our opinion of oneself; vanity is what we would have others think.”
The two older women soon fell into debate on the subject, with Septa Roelle taking the high ground of her faith and Lady Baratheon that of her education. Shireen scooted closer under the guise of rearranging her skirts. “All this talk of pride and vanity, but you never said, what did you think of Mr. Tyrion Lannister, my dear Brienne?”
Ensuring Septa Roelle was caught up in the debate, she confessed, “I found him to be an odd sort of fellow.”
“How so?”
Brienne shared what she had overheard, speaking low so as not to be overheard. By the end, Shireen was clearly amused. “He ought not to have said those things,” she conceded, though it was unclear if she was speaking of the younger or elder Lannister.
“It was not gentleman-like,” Brienne conceded,” but neither of them were wrong.”
Shireen lay her hand upon Brienne’s to administer a gentle squeeze. “You are too kind to others and much too hard on yourself,” she admonished.
“Careful, lest you make me too vain of my so-called good nature,” Brienne teased.
“Never. I can only attempt to make you proud of it,” Shireen rallied back.
“Girls? What are you two whispering about?” Septa Roelle demanded. They quickly echoed platitudes about the weather and the rest of the visit was spent discussing the health of Lady Whent.
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Just some general story establishing today, folks. Next chapter, everyone is back.
chapter one l chapter two l chapter three l chapter four l chapter five
Two days after the assembly, the Lannisters paid a visit to Storm’s End. Their visit was quickly returned, and from there, Lady Baratheon was pleased to circulate throughout the Stormlands that further acquaintance with Miss Baratheon was pursued by Miss Lannister.
“The young ladies are increasingly fond of each other. Why, the Lannisters have dined with us twice now in a fortnight and are due to visit again this very evening!”
Though initially a bit taken aback by this development, Shireen was pleased to become the dear friend of such an accomplished woman as Cersei Lannister.
Brienne perceived things rather differently.
The Tarths had been invited to each of the dinners to better fill out the party, and while it was true Cersei Lannister did actively seek out Shireen’s company, Miss Lannister’s overall manner and tone were always vastly superior towards everyone, often bordering on arrogance. Her manners were always excellent but Brienne did not miss the double entendres of her words, often directed at the lack of culture and beauty of the Stormlands and its inhabitants.
After careful consideration, Brienne rather suspected Miss Lannister’s attention was less due to the enjoyment of their company and more about Baratheon’s connection to the Iron Throne. She refrained from voicing these suspicions as she did not want to dampen her younger friend’s happiness.
Occupied in observing Shireen’s growing relationship with Miss Lannister, Brienne did not realize she herself was the object of growing interest to one of the party members.
Jaime Lannister had been taken aback to find Brienne Tarth in the dinner company at Storm’s End, but Cersei had later explained Miss Tarth was the only friend of the young girl, as no other families in the area would dine with the Baratheons for fear of catching grayscale over soup. After Jaime’s brief sight of Miss Tarth at the assembly, the sheer absurdity of her had hung in his mind, as a particular oddity is wont to do.
Truly unfortunate was a kind way to describe the lady, and yet, the more Jaime looked, the more he found himself unable to look away. He spent most of the first night trying to best determine the exact shade of her eyes and finally determined they were the same blue as a crystalline lake in the mountains. In his morbid curiosity, he learned in that evening alone, without speaking a word to her, that she was not fond of partridge and had a tendency to grow flustered if addressed directly in conversation but was not unintelligible when she composed herself to reply.
Upon the ride home, Cersei had been particularly vicious on the subject of Miss Tarth. Judging his cousin had not missed his particular attention on said lady throughout the evening, Jaime made it clear to himself and his companions that Brienne Tarth was the most unfortunate creature that had ever walked this earth. Satisfied, Cersei proceeded to sharpen her claws on how intolerable she found the elder Lady Baratheon.
Jaime resolved that to be the end of the matter until Cersei invited the two ladies to join them for dinner later that same week. Everyone had one redeemable quality, and Miss Tarth’s just happened to be those remarkable eyes, so of course, when she smiled or laughed, they lent a slight charm to her otherwise homely face.
Except as soon as he acknowledged that truth, he then began to notice her lips were rather full and often quirked upwards in pleasant reverie when she was not caught out or being forced to endure whatever ordeal was taking place at the moment. And while all her gowns were years out of fashion and only served to further make her look altogether too broad and heavy for anyone to consider pleasing, she had an uncanny sort of grace when she walked, a lightness that belied her stature.
Brienne remained perfectly unaware of this development, as Lord Lannister had yet to speak a single word to her directly. It was not until a large party was assembled at Storm’s End did Brienne notice his eye upon her.
“Whatever have you done to Mr. Lannister?” Shireen asked after Brienne pointed it out to her.
“Nothing in the slightest!”
“Well, we shall find out shortly, as he is coming this way,” Shireen announced. Before Brienne could escape, Shireen called out for him to join them. “I was just entreating Brienne to speak to Lady Whent about hosting a ball at Harrenhal.”
“And I was refuting the need for another dance so soon after our last.”
Lord Lannister raised a sardonic brow. “It is my experience that all ladies are keen for any and all opportunities in which to dance.”
“Your experience is limited to ladies of beauty and grace,” Brienne replied back before she could think better of her words. “Those ladies who are not gifted with such accouterments find dances to be a dreadfully different business.”
Behind them, a member of the party had opened up the instrument and began to play. Shireen brightened as Beric Dondarian led Cersei out for an impromptu dance. Struck by this idea, several others in attendance began to join them, including Tyrion and one of the youngest Penrose girls.
Shireen brightened in a way that boded ill for Brienne. “Shall we put your sentiment to the test, Brienne? Surely Lord Lannister would not mind partnering with you for one song?”
“You twist my words to sound bitter,” Brienne said, drawing away from them.
Jaime stepped forward and offered her his hand. “I would be most willing if you are, Ms. Tarth.”
She did not so much as regard his outstretched hand. “Thank you for the thought, but there is no need, I assure you. Excuse me, I believe I see my father looking for me.”
And just as neat as that, she was gone as the first song came to a close. Cersei appeared at his side with her dance partner on her heels. “Mr. Dondarian had high hopes to continue dancing,” Cersei said pointedly to Shireen, “but I am quite spent and could not oblige him.”
It was quickly decided that Shireen would be an ideal partner in her stead and they departed to join in for the next song. Jaime paid either of them little mind as he watched Brienne move around the edge of the room. Her declination of his offer had intrigued him and he was watching to see what she would do in the case of another offer.
“Jaime! Have you heard a word I’ve been saying to you?” He turned to find his cousin frowning up at him. “Do I interrupt your reverie?”
“Not at all. I was just musing on why a lady of little prospects would turn down an opportunity to dance.”
Cersei’s eyes went wide. “And which lady would be so foolish as to turn down a dance with a lion of Casterly Rock?”
“Miss Brienne Tarth.”
To his surprise, Cersei began to laugh. “Miss Brienne Tarth!” she echoed. “Why, Jaime, dear. Of course, she declined. The gentlemen of the region have long asked her to dance and then purposefully ridiculed her by leaving her waiting on the floor. She no doubt thought you meant to do the same.”
His brow furrowed at this news. “Why in the Warrior's name would I do that? What purpose does such behavior serve?”
“A lark is a lark,” Cersei said dismissively. “The question is, why would you ask Miss Tarth at all. You despise dancing.”
Her tone was prying, and he was in no mood for his cousin's acerbity. “This is true. Perhaps I have yet to meet the right partner.”
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I'm amusing myself with this shorter bite-size chapter style. It's leading to quite an interesting structure, but I'm enjoying the practice so far.
Brienne woke, still in the previous evening’s ill humor. She had forgotten to close the shade and thus was rudely awakened despite seemingly only just falling asleep. She lay there for a moment, knowing Septa Roelle would not begrudge her a lie-in after her evening at the assembly. For a second, she was tempted to do just that. Lie there, stewing in the memories of Tyrion Lannister’s voice, bordering on admiration but landing in disbelief, and green eyes, dabbling in disbelief but ending, as they always did, in revulsion.
Instead, Brienne rolled out of bed and laced on her boots. She donned an old threadbare gown before she quietly made her way down the stairs. Faint snores emanated from Septa Roelle’s room, even though the kitchen staff were already awake and seeing breakfast. The scully maid was too busy poking worriedly at the unrising loaf of bread in the oven, so Brienne grabbed an apple from the basket before anyone could see and slipped outside. Mr. Tarth may pay their wages, but Septa Roelle ran the staff with an iron grip, if any of them saw Brienne up this early, they’d have fetched the matron at once.
Despite the lingering humidity, the early spring air was frigid this morning. It felt refreshing and by the time Brienne had made her way to her gate, she was wide awake and eager to start her day. Taking another large, satisfactory bite of her apple, Brienne meandered down the path to the Colonel’s yard. Having foregone a bonnet, she tipped her face to the cloudless sky to enjoy the warmth against her skin.
“Dinna expect to see you, this morn.”
Inhaling deeply, Brienne lowered her gaze to where the Colonel stood at his gate. “Morning,” she greeted before finishing the apple with another large crunch. Juice ran down her fingers, and she was tempted to lick her fingers clean, but she didn’t dare. Colonel Brandon was a lot of things, but he was also still a man. One more interested in other men, whether for the love of boxing or for another kind of pleasure, Brienne couldn’t say. Nor did she care.
Forging the pleasures of the apple, Brienne lowered her hand to her side, discreetly wiping her fingers against her skirt. It was ruined anyway; being slightly sticky and smelling of apples was hardly the worst thing to befall it. “You’re finally fixing it?” she nodded to the gate, one creaky hinge slightly off-kilter and causing the entire panel to sag into the dirt of the path.
“Thought I’d have the time.” The Colonel spat into the bushes as he leaned against the fence post he was repairing. “What with you having had the ball or what not.”
“The assembly,” Brienne corrected.
“Word is the new master of Morne Manor is the runt of the litter. Any truth to that?”
Brienne recalled the mismatched eyes crinkled up at her in solidarity, a queer sort of understanding between two outsiders. “He seems like a good man,” was all she said.
The Colonel snorted. “Your a’ great deal too kind to people in general, lass. You never speak a cruel word of anyone, including those who deserve it.”
Brienne’s grip tightened around the apple core until juice squeezed between her knuckles to drop to the dirt beneath her boots. “Up for a bit of sport this morning?” Brienne proposed.
“Most ladies would be talking my ear off about the new lord and his company,” the Colonel observed as he swung the gate open to permit her entry.
Brienne tossed the apple core aside. “And what would I have to say about the new tenants? Lord Tyrion is shorter than most, this is true- but he possesses no shortage of wit. He danced nearly every dance and conversed with all that approached him.”
“Beggars cannae be choosers,” the Colonel grunted as he dropped into a ready position.
Brienne followed suit. “He was a deal more pleasurable than his brother or their cousin.”
“Heir to the Rock dinnae have to be pleasurable. A dwarf bastard does.”
“He’s not-”
“Fists up!’ The Colonel had taken a swing at her, and she stumbled to the left to avoid the jab.
“I wasn’t ready!” she protested in disbelief.
“Stop your chattering then,” he advised, feinting back before issuing a clean uppercut. Brienne blocked it, and he danced away, giving her a precious moment to compose herself. “Always be ready. Distractions are just that, distractions.”
They fell into a familiar pattern. The Colonel was older, slower, but precise. He waited for her to drop her guard before dancing close. Brienne circled slowly, keeping her fists up. She was careful to keep her feet light, knees bent, elbows close as she watched her opponent.
The next time he came at her, she was ready. She feinted to the left, and when he followed, she sidestepped neatly. He floated past her, already turning on his heel, but she pressed the advantage. She had him against the fence with three quick punches. He raised his elbows, took the hits, and returned them in equal force.
He was a tall man, maybe as tall as Jaime Lannister, but he had been brawnier in his youth, where the young lion was lean. Now, the Colonel’s brawn had withered away to a hollow chest, leathery sinews, and a weathered face. Still, they both had that same easy grace of a soldier in their movements and in the way they looked at her, sizing her up not as a woman but as an opponent.
The Colonel lashed out, and Brienne, caught in her recollection of the handsome stranger, barely raised an elbow to block him. His punch landed on her chin. She staggered backward, and instinct took over. She pitched forward to offset her momentum, throwing out her left hand wildly to prevent the Colonel from pressing his advantage, but he was already lowering his arms.
“Ah,” he groaned, rubbing his cheek with the back of his hand. “You here or somewhere else this mornin’, lass? I havene got such an easy hit since you were sprouting ringlets.”
Brienne straightened, internally cursing herself for three times a fool. “Here,” she proclaimed before dropping into a fighter’s stance. Boxing was her respite, her haven. Here, everything else faded away to the dance. She was no longer too big, too tall, too strong- here, she was no lady, no one’s daughter, just a boxer.
A damn good one too.
Brienne released a flurry of jabs and punches, ducking once, twice, three times before landing an uppercut before spinning away. The Colonel did not follow, taking the time to set back up before she came towards him again. This time, she danced around him in a circle, just out of reach. Her skirt flapped about her ankles, but she paid it no mind. It was nothing to her. Here, she was not the Beauty, the maid of Tarth, or an unfortunate wench. Here, she was Brienne.
As the sparring practice continued back at Morne Manor, the trio of Lannisters were just arriving home. Jaime and Cersei stumbled off to sleep, but Tyrion, still slightly drunk on brandy and good times, made his way to the breakfast room.
The staff had already laid out the morning meal, noticeably less than most mornings but perfectly suited for his needs. There was toast and porridge, a rather large pot of coffee, which he ignored, and boiled eggs. He helped himself to a bit of everything, humming some country tune he had just learned that evening. His legs were cramping terribly, but overall, he was in such a fantastic mood he could barely be bothered to care.
He was free. Free to do whatever he liked, such as throw the plate to the floor, demand more brandy, or fall asleep in his porridge. Here, clear on the other side of Westeros, his father’s shadow was not quite as long. Tyrion had six thousand pounds to his name, an estate of his own, and was quite satisfied with the arrangement as it stood.
Unbidden, he thought of Tysha and how well she would like it here, but the thought sucked all the joy out of the morning. Tyrion crashed back to earth, all too aware of what he was, what others must have thought of him. He grew somber as he stared out the window across his new garden, where the trees were starting to bud, and dew glistened on every blade of grass. It was shaping up to be a beautiful day, yet his mood darkened.
Tysha was a sore spot, much like an abscessed tooth. He ought to leave it alone, but he found he could not. How did one forget their first love? Their only love?
A whore, Tyrion corrected with a shake of his head. “I ought to have known,” he said aloud as he looked down at his stubby fingers where they clutched the knife and fork. “Ah, but it was a sweet lie while it lasted.”
Humming the same tune from earlier, he hopped down and made his way towards his bed. He was growing aware of the alcohol leaving his system and the dregs of exhaustion growing too pronounced to ignore much longer. At the top of the stairs, he stopped to look about his manor.
Red and gold hung everywhere, all orchestrated by Jaime in some misguided guise to remind Tyrion he was a Lannister. Poor, dim Jaime had never understood their father did not think of Tyrion as anything more than a cruel jape, a millstone about his neck.
“Well, father,” Tyrion drawled. “I would have been happy with a cottage in the woods with a whore for the rest of my days, but I suppose I’ll make a go of playing the lord’s son.”
He had not expected Jaime to come with him. He had barely spoken to his brother since Tysha but Jaime had been there at his departure and throughout the journey east. And just as he had always been, Tyrion was somehow comforted by his presence.
After all, the two had been close as far back as Tyrion’s earliest memories. In spite of all their great oppositions, Tyrion loved his brother even though they could not be more different in temperament or life experience. Tyrion had learned at an early age to charm with wit and quip, but Jaime had always been loved for his beauty and brawn and had never developed any charm. He was blunt and bold, and people permitted it because he was heir to Westeros's richest estate.
And yet here he was, with Tyrion, attending dances and setting up manors, all things Jaime Lannister hated.
On the way back from the assembly, Tyrion had pressed Jaime for his thoughts on the Stormland assembly, eager to hear what his brother had to say. “Very pleasant people, these Stormlanders,” Tyrion had declared. Sure, people had whispered and pointed but they had done that in the Westerlands as well. “And the girls- as pretty as any girl in Lannisport,” he needled, watching Jaime’s face closely.
Jaime just lifted an eyebrow and went back to watching the horizon roll past as Cersei dozed beside him. He had spent the evening in abject boredom, having found the company dull and vapid. The girls had not been any prettier than any he had seen before, the country fashion far out of style and the dances clumsy at best. The talk had been of weather and crops, same town gossip, and that of the militia coming to town by summer. He had been bored within the first hour of their arrival.
Though, there had perhaps been one note of interest, that huge hulk of a woman, the one his brother had called the Beauty of Tarth. He had been taken aback when he had first laid eyes on her. Her strange, homely face had been so open he could read every thought crossing her mind- but then he had seen her arms- capped in ridiculous sleeves and adorned in white gloves- the lace only served to accentuate the tendons in her arms, the curve of the muscle, the only curves she possessed judging by the way her gown fell in a shapeless sack.
Jaime would have taken odds the horrible excuse for a dress hid a waist as thick as a tree trunk. And by the time he had remembered himself, she had been flushed as red as a Lannister flag, every inch of flushed skin covered in freckled skin that spoke of too many days in the sun. She had somehow managed to disappear into the crowd before he could get another look at her. Surprising considering her broad shoulders and the fact she had towered over even him.
Brienne the Beauty. Whoever had given her name had been in his cups—there was truly nothing beautiful about that poor creature. Brienne the Brute, Brienne the Bear—he amused himself with the various nicknames, her name rolling around in his mind like wine in a cup—each new alliteration causing him to grin: Brienne the Barbarian, Brienne the Beast, Brienne, Brienne, Brienne.
As he fell into his bed, Jaime stared up at the ceiling, unable to sleep. Despite his exhaustion, whenever he closed his eyes, he could only see a pair of rather remarkable sapphire eyes.
--
AN: I honestly can only blame @butterednuggets17, who commented and reminded me this existed. After that, it would not leave my head, so I wrote some more of it.
The Unforeseen, Unanticipated and Unexpected: A Tale in Three Parts
Dear @moonlight91 Your prompt was so amazing (I do like a challenge) that I wrote a million different stories before I finally settled on a bit of fairytale hilarity with a little bit of the fake dating trope thrown in just for fun. So, thank you for your patience these last two weeks, and a big thank you to @rumbellesecretsanta for allowing me to help out.
Merry (belated) Christmas- I do hope you enjoy it!
Read it on AO3
At the seventh stroke of midnight on the seventh day of the seventh month, the Dark One found himself summoned with blood, ash, and bone to a deep, dark grove.
All this pomp and ceremony was unnecessary, but if he didn’t go about setting weirdly-specific conditions, he would be summoned left and right and would never get anything done. As the summoner rose from the make-shift altar, the moonlight bounced silver off the figure revealing the Dark One had been called forth by, by his least favorite thing in this world and the next, a knight.
Said knight was already peering down his nose, clearly unimpressed. Rumpelstiltskin knew the type. He could have shown up as a fire-breathing dragon, and this fool still would have been disappointed. “Do I have the honor- “ the knight’s tone made it clear it was anything but- “of addressing the Dark One?”
Rumpelstiltskin cracked a particular toothy grin. “Present!” he trilled, adding a flick of his wrist for a pop of flair. Knights loved pageantry; it always helped to give them a bit of a show. “And who might you be exactly?”
“I am Sir Gaston LeRoux, the First Sword of Avonlea, and I have need of your aid.”
“And what help could a great warrior such as yourself possibly need with little old me? Can’t be ogre problems. I got rid of those things centuries ago.” Rumpelstiltskin tipped his head back and forth in consideration, mulling it over. “Perhaps you are in need of a magic sword, that sort of thing?”
“I have no need for magic weapons,” the knight managed through a clenched jaw.
Rumpelstiltskin picked a moonflower from a low hanging branch. It must have just bloomed, for the scent was ripe and sweet as he plucked first one petal off and then another, and another- “Then, tis a woman.”
He knew he was right. True, this Sir Gaston was more handsome than the usual lovelorn sort and well aware of his good fortune judging by his perfectly styled locks, but men of the sword were often hopeless when it came to affairs of the heart.
The knight bowed his head in acquiescence. “Thou speakest true. I am betrothed to the Lady of Avonlea, but my heart belongs to another.”
Rumpelstiltskin tsked. How boring. He ever only got involved in this sort of nonsense on the off chance he stumbled upon a case of True Love. And there was no chance this vain peacock knew the first thing about love. “Then, why not just break it off?”
The knight cleared his throat. “It is no easy feat. I have tried, but….the reason I have come to you is...in truth, I suspect my betrothed is, herself, a sorceress. She has bewitched all those around her to do her bidding. Her father has stepped aside to let her rule in his stead. Why even I was briefly under her sway. I fear, not for myself, but what she would do to my love if she ever uncovered my heart is no longer a slave to her spell.”
For the first time in the conversation, Rumpelstiltskin’s interest was piqued. A sorceress was rare. Sure, the occasional noble lady did pick up a spell or two here and there, but more typically, they just had a magical heirloom of sorts at their disposal. Perhaps this wouldn’t be a colossal waste of his time after all. “I do like a challenge,” Rumpelstiltskin acknowledged, already mentally listing possible lost artifacts he might acquire. “What’s in it for me?”
The knight grew even more somber, impressing, considering he had yet to show any actual emotion. “I have heard of the monstrous price you require. So be it.” He inhaled deeply, then as if it pained him to even speak the words, he said,” For the Dark One’s assistance, you shall have my firstborn.”
Oh, great. This again.
Rumpelstiltskin had rather thought he had put an end to this rumor sometime last century. Honestly, he had no idea where people kept getting the fantastical notion that he wanted their children. It had just been the one time, and he hadn’t even been serious then. Besides, any halfway decent looking man was sure to have a litter of bastards in every kingdom. “I hardly want your byblows,” he scoffed. “You shall have my help. But first, I require three truths from your lips, and afterward, a favor.”
The knight hesitated. “You...you’re sure you don’t just want my firstborn child?”
Oh, for the love of - It had been a slow decade and growing more monotonous by the minute. There was no excitement anymore. Rumpelstiltskin couldn’t even recall the last time he had been called upon to partake in some great struggle between the forces of good and evil. It was just the same thing day in and day out. What he wouldn’t give for a good war right about now...
Rumpelstiltskin snapped his fingers, and a rather long, intricate scroll appeared, the terms of the deal neatly inscribed upon it. “Three truths and a favor. Do we have a deal?”
These were words that could change a life forever, especially when said by the Dark One himself. Only the truly desperate or truly deluded ever agreed to them, and the man before him did not appear desperate.
As anyone could have predicted, the fool agreed to the terms of his demise without so much as reading the fine print. There, in the heart of some nameless swamp, the knight committed to his ruin. He finished signing his name with a flourish, only for it to shift and change in a shimmer of light and magic.
“Gaston LeGume,” Rumpelstiltskin read aloud. He bared his fangs in a mockery of a smile. “My, my. A baseborn son of a landless farmer has styled himself the First Sword of Avonlea.”
As expected, his companion’s mood darkened in an instant, a hand descending to the hilt of his blade. “I warn you, sir- do not mock me!”
Rumpelstiltskin almost wished the knight would draw his sword. It had been ages since he had turned anyone into a frog. But business was business, and he was confident he could not only profit here but have a little fun with this destined-to-be bullfrog. So, he simply wiggled his fingers, adding in a giggle for good measure.
(That always threw these types off.)
“Touchy, touchy,” he admonished. “What do I care about your birth? You owe me three truths, and the first one has now been collected. Count yourself fortunate. Now, for the second truth, who is this paragon of beauty that has awoken you from the sorceress's spell?”
Gaston hemmed, and he hawed, but the magic got the truth from his lips in the end: Princess Allissa Óir, the only heir to the throne, riches, and lands of the great kingdom of Ormiston. Gaston waxed on a bit about her beauty, grace and the usual nonsense men said about women they barely knew before Rumpelstiltskin cut him off to ask the question that truly mattered. The third and final truth: “And this paradigm of a woman- does she love you as well?”
The knight clutched passionately at his breast again to drive the point home. “Most ardently. Her father has even blessed the union.”
No wonder this fellow had gone to such desperate lengths as to summon the Dark One. With just his good looks and silver tongue, the son of some carrot farmer had transformed himself to the next king of the most powerful kingdom of the age. There was just one thing in his way, his betrothed, the Lady Belle Levasseur of Avonlea.
The Dark One knew Avonlea; it was a minor holding on the edges of Ormiston. Which explained why the false knight could not just disappear into the night and emerge as a king. The two lands were neighbors, and if the Lady Levasseur was indeed capable of magic, the new King and Queen of Orimson would pay dearly for their marriage.
Yes, yes, an almost interesting case. A king in his pocket would do nicely. After all, Rumpelstiltskin had been purposefully vague on what “a favor” entailed. First, he had to deal with the one responsibility that fell to him: removing Lady Levasseur from the equation.
It was best to get it over. So, Rumpelstiltskin made his way straight to the small fort that the inhabitants of Avonlea called a castle. It was an odd, misshapen thing with a sloped roof tower by the gatehouse that looked like someone had been drunk when designing it and even drunker when building it. The rest of the hold appeared stable enough, though there was not one taller than an adolescent ogre amongst the five turreted towers.
There was a light in the gatehouse, but the lone watcher was none the wiser of the wolf lurking in the shadows. To ensure it stayed this way, Rumpelstiltskin swept his hand up and over his head, and oblivion helpfully draped itself about his shoulders, rendering him as visible as a spiderweb in the dark.
Inside was no better in terms of architecture. Every wall, both exterior and interior, was composed of an assortment of gray cobblestones, held overhead by low hanging wooden beams that even someone of his low stature would risk walking straight into. Though he was loath to call this hovel anything more, the inhabitants of the castle had done their best to make the place look respectable. Rich tapestries hung in strategic spots, and the candelabras upon the wall were pure gold, equipped with beeswax candles that had been neatly wicked.
In a residence of this size, it was easy enough to spot the Lord’s Tower. It stood in the center of the courtyard; a royal insignia stamped helpfully upon the wooden doors. A simple snap of his fingers and the doors were gone.
It was easy enough to make doors disappear, but he had not quite determined how to handle the disappearance of the lady herself. For to ensure his end of the bargain was met, she would have to be removed. Perhaps he could turn her into a swan; that had been rather popular last century. Or a sleeping curse was always an option. The lady could stay young forever, and perhaps after a hundred years or so, some prince would wake her with true love’s kiss. Oh, there were endless options. All of them were as easy as the right words and a snap of his fingers-
He just had to find the lady first.
Because despite the hour, she was not in her chambers.
Her bed had been slept in or at least laid upon. The windows had been drawn and shuttered, and the fire had dimmed to embers. He stood in the doorway for a moment, considering the scene, when he noticed a small drop of wax right inside the door. He shifted and then spotted another drop, a larger one out in the hallway. Both were hardened but not scuffed. Not fresh, but made this night.
To his left, there was a staircase descending back down from which he had come. To his right, a long hallway. Had the lady gone to visit a lover? How droll. Perhaps he could simply expose them, allowing Gaston to annul the betrothal and marry his princess without penalty. It was hardly titillating, but Rumpelstiltskin had long ago learned to keep his options open…
The hallway dead-ended into another door, no doubt the Lord’s Chambers, judging by the heavy snoring emanating from it. To his left, there was another staircase, but this one ascended. And there was a faint drop of wax on the third stair.
He followed it to the top of the turret, only to find one last door. This one was ajar, and from within, a light was burning. The tip of a turret was always a popular spellcasting spot, but there was nothing he could sense in the way of magic. Nor was there any sound of passion, no whispered words or bubbling potions- just silence—a conundrum.
He paused, considering for a moment. This task was proving to be a bit of something different. If pressed, he would almost admit he was enjoying himself. He made a careful note to keep the door from so much as making a squeak lest it announce his entrance.
But of all the things he might have imagined, he could not have predicted he’d find himself in a makeshift library of sorts. The rounded room had books piled along the walls, large and small, with spines of every color, carefully stacked in orderly rows. There was no fire to keep the night’s chill at bay or brighten the darkness, nor was there any tapestries or rugs to make the room inviting.
Besides the hundreds of books, there was just a single desk with a candle nearly burnt to the last. There was a lone cloaked figure at the desk, but they had fallen asleep, their head upon the desk’s surface, dead to the world. There were no cauldrons, no familiars, not even a vial of something foul. The only clue to the figure’s identity was a mass of auburn curls spilling out across the desk from beneath the hood.
He made his way closer. The floorboards silent; knowing better than to so much as creak underneath his weight. Outside, an owl hooted as if sensing a fellow predator. The call was followed by the sound of wings as it swept down from the roof upon its helpless prey down below-
And just as the Dark One reached out his own talons to squeeze around the neck of the sleeper, she stirred. He prepared for a gasp or even a scream- but he was not, however, prepared to find a dagger pressed into the underside of his jerkin.
“Another move, and your entrails will be on the floor.” The dagger pressed deeper as his “prey” slowly stood. She was a head shorter than him, but the light of the almost extinguished candle was too meager for him to make out her features. He could only see the fine-boned hand currently wielding what looked like to be a letter opener.
As annoying as it was to find himself in such a predicament, he had to admit it was rather masterfully done. If he were any mere ruffian, he would be entirely at her mercy. But the Dark One was not in danger of something so trivial as a dagger in the dark. He snapped his fingers, and in a heartbeat, her weapon turned into a single red rose.
It’s thorns bit into her white-knuckled fingers, drawing first blood. She hissed in surprise, dropping the flower to bring wounded fingers up to her mouth. “Magic,” she mumbled around her hand, sounding rather impressed. She lowered her hand with a sigh. “He must have paid a pretty penny. It’s almost flattering, truth be told.”
Rumpelstiltskin chose to ignore the insinuation he could be bought with something as trivial as money. As if he needed gold.
He whispered a simple charm and a twist of his finger; the candle burned back to full life. “You know for what purpose I have come?” he demanded. The lady nodded, and in doing so, her hood shifted and finally slid down to her shoulders.
Rumpelstiltskin was rather lucky he had not dropped the cloaking spell yet, as he found himself at an utter loss for words. This was the woman Gaston was spurning? He understood the man had been ambitious, but good lord, was he blind? In his long lifetime, Rumpelstiltskin had seen the great beauties of lore, the ones who the bards still sung of- none of them had ever struck him as half as lovely as the woman before him. Her features were delicate, classical, and yet there was a strength in the set of her jaw and intelligence in her manner that set her apart from the usual vapid emptiness that so often accompanied the truly beautiful.
She laid the rose upon the desk, subtly casting her eyes in his general direction. “Of course. You’re not the first to come. I wasn’t naive enough to think he’d stop trying.” If she was afraid, her eyes didn’t betray her. She looked more put-out than anything. “You’re the first with magic, though,” she added, in what sounded oddly like a compliment.
He held the cloaking spell in place. He wanted answers, and if the Dark One were to materialize before her, he was not sure Lady Belle would continue cooly discussing her brushes with death. Well, she might. This did not seem like a woman prone to hysterics, but he wasn’t taking that chance quite yet.
(He really loathed hysterics.)
“Why wait for death? Why not use the magic you possess-”
She began to laugh. “Wait- magic? Magic I possess- Is that what he’s telling people now?” To his complete befuddlement, she collapsed back into the chair, wiping away tears of laughter. “Me! Magic!” She fought to regain some iota of self-control but was failing miserably. “Oh, that’s a good one. As if I wouldn’t turn him into a toad first thing-”
“He’d make an impressive bull-frog.”
She made a genuinely horrendous noise like two gears grinding, and he realized she was laughing. “He would, wouldn't he?” she managed through laughter. “I can just see him sitting on the side of the lake, all puffed up.” She helpfully mimicked this by puffing out her chest and filling her cheeks full of air.
He had somehow completely lost control of this encounter. There was nothing to do for it. He discarded the cloaking spell, and her laughter died in her throat. “Oh,” she breathed, eyes widening. He was gratified. Most ladies tended to faint, scream or try and attack him, so this was at least a nice change of pace, if nothing else. “Oh. You’re-”
He sneered. “That’s right. So, if you are quite done laughing- you should know I have struck an agreement with your betrothed. But-” and here he raised a finger, “figuring as I’m in a good mood at the moment, I shall gift you a boon. You may choose your fate.”
His anger rarely ran hot. This self-control had served him well, allowing him to contrive and dole out some truly horrendous forms of revenge in his long life. Gaston would become king. He would rule, safe in the knowledge that he had gotten away with it, that he, a lowborn knight, had hoodwinked the most powerful creature that had ever existed. Only then, would the Dark One drop the Lady Belle back into play, reveal Gaston’s true nature, take all that he had gained, and leave him in the dirt. Possibly as a bull-frog. He’d have to see how he felt in a decade or so. There was nothing quite like a fate delayed. Ask Oedipus.
“You have three options. The first is that of the air. You shall live as a swan for a decade and a day, free to roam the world as you see fit. The second is of the earth. I shall turn you into a statue, and leave you here to watch over your people for a decade and a day, and on the second day, the sun shall rise upon you as a human once more-”
Just as he was about to explain the fire option, which was an excellent spell that involved the sun’s rising and setting- she, to his utter and complete astonishment, raised her hand. “If I might-”
Oh, for Nimue’s sake-
“Is all of this necessary? I have no interest in marrying Gaston. His precious princess is welcome to him.”
He sucked his teeth. This woman was making it impossible to get anything done around here. “Then, why, pray tell, is he trying to kill you?”
She made a sweeping gesture as if encompassing everything around them. “For Avonlea! Why do you think- Ugh!” She pinched her brow, and he could hear her counting to ten under her breath.
He hadn’t needed to ask. He was well aware of how these things worked. With Belle out of the way, Gaston would claim there had been a marriage. The elderly Lord of Avonlea would soon pass either from a broken heart or a knife in the back, and then Gaston would be Lord and Ruler of Avonlea, a fitting husband for a neighboring princess. Their union would unite the two lands...and Ormiston would continue to grow and prosper.
There was no earthly way that the knight had thought of this himself, which meant the King of Ormiston had gotten someone else to do his dirty work. Rumpelstiltskin ground his teeth. He had been played for a fool.
But a deal was a deal. He’d make sure they’d all pay in kind, but the fact of the matter was...this Belle would have to first pay the price.
“You can no longer remain here as the lady of this land.”
“Fine,” she huffed, standing abruptly. “I have to go away for- what was it? A decade and a day? Fine, so be it. I’ll go with you then. Surely, you need….I don’t know some sort of assistance. You have a castle, don’t you?” He opened his mouth, but she did not need an answer to continue the conversation. “Wait- no. Hold on, answer me one question. The deal- was Avonlea a part of it?” He mutely shook his head. “Oh, good. Here’s what we’ll do-”
And then, she laid out in very clear detail her master plan.
It was beautiful in its simplicity, calculating and cunning in its execution, and nearly diabolical in terms of vengeance. By the time the sun rose upon the Lady of Avonlea and the Dark One, a new alliance, had been forged. One that would change the landscape of the world forever.
It went as thus. On the evening of the eighth day, at the eighth hour at the eighth minute, the Dark Lord came (back) to Avonlea. His arrival was not expected at the pre-nuptial feast of Sir Gaston LeRoux and Lady Belle Levasseur, so his appearance was met with (alas) hysterics.
“I hear there is to be a wedding,” Rumpelstiltskin crackled. He rubbed his hands together briskly, clapping them at the end in glee for good measure. “I love weddings.”
Gaston was quite taken aback, but he rallied to put on a good show. He drew his blade, proclaiming loudly and for all to hear that he would protect his lady love. As for the bride, she simply sat in her seat, finishing a custard while an older man with a halo of white hair tugged at her sleeve, urging her to flee.
“Begone, foul beast!” Gaston roared, but he was slowly backing away from the dais, leaving the lord and lady of the castle unprotected. Not that anyone noticed. The entire hall had fled or was cowering under trench tables lining the room. “I shall strike you down before I let you so much as gaze upon my fair lady.”
“Pretty words for a pretty boy,” Rumpelstiltskin cooed up at him. He took another step, baring his teeth in a smile. “I came to allow you to mend your mistake, Lord Maurice.”
“My-my-” The old man was stuttering, white with fear, but he had not let go of his daughter’s arm.
“I had rather thought my wedding invitation must have gotten lost,” Rumpelstiltskin supplied helpfully, starting to pick at imaginary lint on his sleeve. “But then I started to think perhaps I wasn’t invited-”
“You were not!” The knight demonstrated a few fancy parries, and then with a little fancy footwork, he danced his way to the opposite side of the Dark One, blocking the remainder of viewers from the rulers of Avonlea. “Begone from this place at once!” Gaston crowed and had the audacity to wink. The fool, he was still playing checkers; they had moved onto chess.
Rumpelstiltskin waved his arm in a lazy arc, and the knight-who-would-be-king was stopped dead in his tracks, frozen with his sword raised overhead in a rather wickedly uncomfortable position. “Now, then, where were we? Ah, yes. I’m sure it was not your intention to purposefully slight me, was it, Lord Maurice?”
The older man’s jowls were quivering, mouth opening and closing with no sounds coming out. Belle took the opportunity to rise, placing herself pointedly between her father and her conspirator. “There was no slight meant, sir,” she assured him. In the light of the candelabras overhead, her golden dress glowed warm and bright. “What can we do to atone for this grievous oversight?”
A few of the party-goers were starting to creep out from beneath the tables and from behind pillars, their self-preservation losing out to their curiosity as he knew it would. Happened every time.
“You know, I’d rather like a wedding of my own, come to think of it.” He turned to the gathered, huddled masses. “Good people of Avonlea, I shall spare your lands from pestilence and pandemonium on one condition.”
“Good heavens, but name it, sir!” Lord Maurice exclaimed. “Anything and everything I have in my power to give is yours!”
Rumpelstiltskin whipped around, a huge grin spreading across his face. She had worried things might not go according to plan, but he had told her it would be easy. People were so predictable. Well, most of them. The ones not named Belle, at least.
“A bride!”
The entire congregation moaned in horror, and Lord Maurice collapsed in his chair.
“But-but-but-”
They had worked it out carefully; each knew their lines as well as each other’s - but Rumpelstiltskin always did love a bit of improvisation. “Let’s see,” Rumpelstiltskin sang, already descending the dais towards a group of young women huddled in a corner. “Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who is the fairest one of all?”
The girls, predictably, descended into sobs. They clutched at each other, but he turned away sharply, peering under a table at two serving wenches. “And who do we have here?”
One screamed and started to push the other at him.
“Enough, sir.” Belle had descended after him. “ As I am the only bride here, and it was my wedding which so slighted your honor, ” with a court curtsy, she prostrated herself before him, “I am the only one suitable.”
When Belle had suggested this ploy, Rumpelstiltskin had nearly swallowed his tongue. She made it clear she had no interest in marriage, and while she would like nothing more than to roam the world to explore new and far-flung places, her place was here in Avonlea, and if she could, she was honor-bound to remain. As a married woman, wife to the most powerful creature in the world, she could do just that.
After nearly an hour of debating, threatening and whining had not changed her mind; he had finally relented. Rumpelstiltskin would be free to come and go in the decades the lady lived, and Belle would be free to do as she liked as Lady of Avonlea.
The terms of his deal with Gaston would be met, with his betrothal to Belle broken beyond repair. Of course, without Avonlea to bring to the table, Rumpelstiltskin rather doubted a crown was in Gaston’s future, but as Belle had so cleverly seen- Avonlea had not been part of the bargain.
That was why you always read the fine print.
“Done!” Rumpelstiltskin proclaimed, and taking her hand, he helped raise her to her feet. Around them, the crowd began to whisper and moan, a few of the ladies having fainted. Belle met his gaze, bright blue eyes twinkling in mischief. Rumpelstiltskin realized he hadn’t known what color her eyes were, but he was reasonably positive he would never forget again. “We shall be married here, and now, that is unless anyone objects?”
“Belle!” her father moaned. “My dear girl-”
“It’s fine, Papa,” she assured him, but she never took her eyes off Rumpelstiltskin. “I know what I’m doing.”
There was utter conviction in her voice. Rumpelstiltskin had to suppress a shiver as he was still holding her hands. Some little voice in the back of his head was starting to wonder if he was way over his head in this after all, but he ignored it.
There was a clatter of steel on stone as the spell containing Gaston dissolved. The knight pitched backwards, down the stairs, and onto his back. There were gasps, and the crowd began to murmur, even louder this time as their favorite son, and would have been lord raised himself to his feet.
His beautiful face was twisted in rage. “WE HAD A DEAL!” he bellowed, already charging at them. He swung his broadsword, fully intent on cutting them both down where they stood. Rumpelstiltskin instinctively drew Belle to his side, sheltering her from the swing even though a crook of his finger was all it took for the Dark One needed to send the sword spinning into the air.
Even weaponless, Gaston was not cowed. “This isn’t how it was supposed to go!” he railed, far too lost in his rage. His perfectly styled hair fell into his face as he thrust a finger at them. “We had a deal, Dark One. She was to die, and Avonlea was to be mine! I was going to be the king, you-”
Now, the words died in his throat as the murmurs of the crowd swelled into a furious chorus. It appeared the First Sword of Avonlea might have been well-loved but not more than their lady.
“Scoundrel!” an older woman called out, ignoring her husband’s attempt to pull her back behind the safety of a suit of armor. “Blackguard!”
Belle took charge. Rumpelstiltskin hadn’t realized he had still been holding her tightly to his side until, with a squeeze of his hands, she stepped out of his arms and towards the man who wanted her dead. “Sir LeRoux, you are to leave this hall and this land at once. Return to your master of Ormiston and tell him Avonlea has a new lord. But first, I believe it is only fitting that you bear witness to our union, seeing as you had a rather large hand to play in its arrangement.”
“You b-”
Gaston did not get to finish those words. His hands, already reaching out for Belle’s neck, went to his own throat as invisible hands cut off the oxygen. There was no humor in Rumpelstiltskin’s voice now, all acting had gone out the window. “That is my bride you are speaking to, sir. Have a care what you say, or I will feed your tongue to the dogs.”
As Gaston struggled to breathe, Belle turned to a portly gentleman who was tightly wedged between his seat and the table. “Good Uncle Bartholomew, will you read the bans?”
The man looked from Belle’s calm and collected face to Gaston’s purple one, to the Dark One. Then, he turned to where Lord Maurice sat, still collapsed in his chair upon the dais. “My lord?”
“Belle, my dear, surely we can-”
“Papa,” her voice was steel. “I’ve made my decision.” She half-turned to Rumpelstiltskin. “All of you have borne witness to Sir LeRoux’s words. On the eve of our wedding, he has plotted my death to take over Avonlea as his own. If the price for my life and the prosperity of our lands is to wed the Dark One, who has saved me though he may not have known it at the time- then so be it. It is a price I will happily pay for you and all of Avonlea.”
“Here, here,” came a voice, and another echoed this and then another. The people closest to them were still eying Rumpelstiltskin warily, but with Gaston now on his knees, no one was daring to make too big a fuss.
In the end, the bans were read. It was an odd wedding. The bride’s father cried the entire time, the guests were somber and morose, and the man who should have been the groom was prone on the floor, barely able to breathe, much less object when that part of the bans was read aloud.
As for the bride and groom...Well, Rumpelstiltskin had been married once upon a time, and while this was in name only, the usual flutter of anticipation was in his belly, and he couldn’t quite help the lopsided grin on his face. He would tell anyone who dared ask it was all an act, but in truth, he couldn’t help smiling at his bride, who was positively beaming at him like a cat who caught the canary.
The guests would tell anyone who would listen (and everyone wanted to hear the tale) they had never seen a happier bride. Others would swear the groom looked almost nervous, but no one believed the Dark One could be nervous.
Gaston fled to Ormiston, only to be flogged, denounced to a hedge knight, and banished from the kingdom forever. That was the last of Gaston they ever heard of, and the princess of Ormiston married some other lordling’s second son who had more interest in farming than war. Rumpelstiltskin always denied he had a hand in it, but after that, Avonlea and Ormiston’s kingdoms were at peace.
As the bans concluded, and after Gaston had long made a run for it, Rumpelstiltskin was walking his new bride out towards the Lord Tower to her chambers. He would lock them both inside and then depart back to the Dark Castle, returning in the morning, and rinse and repeat for the remainder of the fortnight to ensure no one challenged the union. “So,” Belle said, her arm neatly in the crook of his own. “Told you it would work.”
“Yes, yes,” he grumbled. “Your clever plan has left you wed to the most fearsome creature in the world. Just wait. Scores of knights will show up to defeat the evil dragon and rescue the fair lady. You simply tell me which one you like, and I’ll play dead so you two may run off into the sunset. Do we have a deal?”
Belle considered this for a moment, tipping her head back and forth. Then, her blues eyes twinkling as bright as the stars overhead, she said, “No. I’m afraid I never much cared for courtiers. Besides, being a married woman comes with some advantages. No one can tell me what to do anymore, and if anyone gets too out of hand, I have a husband to sic on them. No, I’m afraid you’re stuck with me. I’ll remain wed as long as you don’t behave too beastly.”
He shook his head at her, but internally, found he was rather pleased. “I’ve been told I’m incorrigible,” he warned. “Impossible and ill-mannered.”
As the lock on her door swung shut, she simply grinned at him and quipped, “I do like a challenge.”
--
If you were wondering, it took Belle five months and five days, but she finally got it through to her husband that she was perfectly happy being his lawfully wedded wife. He relocated permanently to Avonlea having fallen very much in love with his wife, though it took her seven months and seven days to make him understand she felt the same way and was very much ready to be his lawfully bedded wife, but that dear reader is another story.
(and as always a big thank you to @prissyhalliwell for being a wonderful friend/sounding board0
in case you want a Rumbelle Radio Station!AU- here’s twelve chapters of it and a pinky promise to actually finish the damn thing five years later.
Read it on AO3
--
Will was waiting for her in front of the station with two cups of coffee. He took one look at her and broke into a shit-eating grin. “And here I thought I had a good weekend,” he declared as he thurst a cup into her hand.
“Don’t start,” Belle warned him. “I’m in a very good mood, which I would like to last for at least another five minutes.”
“Done,” he agreed before throwing his free arm around her shoulder and shepherding her into the station. The night guard waved them through, offering Belle a knowing look before returning to her security feed.
Belle flushed. “Do I have a sign around my neck or something?”
“Not a sign per se, just a rather prominent hickey.”
Belle knew she should have spent some more time on her makeup routine this morning but it had been the hardest thing in her life to get out of bed when Rum Skinner was doing his best to make her late for work. “If it’s the last thing I do,” he had sworn as she had finally wiggled free from his embrace, “I’m getting you back on Night Air.”
“For my talent and skills as a producer?”
“Obviously. But also so I can keep you in bed all day.” He had then loudly described a few things he had planned for them as Belle hurried about the room trying to get dressed. She deserved a medal for resisting a man whose literal job was to seduce people using his voice.
“Come over after your show?” Belle had suggested after a goodbye kiss ended up with her spending several long (wonderful) minutes back in the bed.
“Or you could just call in sick?” he had suggested.
It had been tempting but it was only her second week as odd as that sounded. Last Monday, she was a nobody from Avonlea who just had started her brand new job as the producer on Night Air, having never even so much as spoken to the talent. A week later, she was (faux) engaged to said talent, uncovering an embezzlement scheme at her place of employment- oh and receiving death threats every thirty minutes.
Her phone buzzed, and on the off chance it was Rum, she fished it out of her purse. Ah, no, just a new number threatening the same old nonsense. It was starting to seem like perhaps it wasn’t an entire army against her but a few crazies who with any luck would grow bored of this sooner rather than later.
Her phone buzzed again. Or perhaps not.
Belle took the required screenshots and then deleted both messages. Above her, Will sighed. “Let’s have some fun on the show today,” he suggested. “I have a few friends across the pond I could call. You Americans love a good accent.”
It would be an astronomical phone bill. Regina would flip.
“Sounds perfect,” Belle said as they headed down the hall to the booth.
The night shift DJ was just finishing up her shift. “Everyone’s favorite knave, well, the knave of my heart at least, Will Scarlet is up next. As always, thanks for staying up with me tonight, Storybrooke. This is Sleeping Beauty, signing off.” She flipped the switch to commercial and waved them inside the booth.
“Knave of Hearts,” Will drawled. “I quite like that.”
Aurora grinned at him through her tangle of bubblegum pink and blue hair. She spotted Belle coming in behind him and grinned. “You look ravishing this morning.”
“You mean, she looks like she has been ravished this morning,” Will corrected, plopping down into the seat as he started to fiddle with the dials.
“Isn’t that what I said?” Aurora winked at her. “So. Show me the ring.”
The ring. Oh, of all the stupid things they could have forgotten! “It’s being cleaned,” she lied. “I should get started-”
“Course,” Aurora said with a grin as she hiked her backpack onto her shoulder. “Have a good show, guys.”
And they did. Will dialed up a few of his cronies from England, and Belle was kept busy bleeping out curse words that she recognized and some she didn’t.
“That about does it for us,” Will announced, sitting back in his seat to prop his feet up on the table. “Before we go, I do want to introduce everyone to the person behind the curtain, my producer, Miss Belle French. Well, soon to be Miss Belle Skinner.”
Belle was going to kill him. He gestured for her to flip her own microphone on, not saying a word just grinning at her, the bastard.
She cleared her throat. “Morning everyone,” she managed before flipping it right back off. She waved a hand at him, pointing for him to flip the last section of music live but he just arched a brow. Belle swore (silently just in case the mic was still hot) and then, “Hope everyone enjoyed the show today. It was certainly...an educational one for me.”
“Belle here is also new to SB101,” Will said picking up for her. “She started on Night Air but I was lucky enough to get her - well as my producer. Everyone’s favorite wizard of the airwaves snapped up the lovely lady before I could even my foot in the door.” He sighed dramatically. “Not only she is a beauty, but she’s whip-smart, kinder than she has any right to be and brave as they come.”
She mouthed a “thank you” to him through the glass and he winked back.
“Now, before I hand things off to Little Red for the all request lunch hour, I want to announce the True Love contest SB101. You can enter through our website, SB101.com, and get the link from the Morning Show page.” He paused for a moment as if considering, and then, “Every week, you can enter to win a chance to be a guest producer on the Morning Show or Night Air. You’re choice! Just send an email to...ah let’s see Selena- That’s S-E-L-E-N-A Mills at SB101.com. Well, that’s all from me today. We’ll be back same time tomorrow.”
Belle gaped at him as he stood and stretched, tugging off his headset to rub at his ears. “Bloody things are too small- What?” he demanded when he caught her staring.
“What did you just do?”
Before he could answer, Ruby threw open the door and threw her arms around him. “You brilliant, brilliant man!” she crowed.
Leroy was right behind her, and to Belle’s surprise, he was grinning ear-to-ear. “Get a move on sister,” he told her, gently nudging her out of the way. “You got about thirty seconds before-”
A red-head appeared in the open door. “Mr. Scarlet, a word.”
He disentangled himself from Ruby, though he seemed a bit loath to do so. “All words can go through my agent, love,” he said.
“Fine. I’ll just have a word with your producer, then.” Startling green eyes cut over to where Belle stood, still half frozen. “Ms. French? If you could join me in my office?”
She didn’t wait for a reply, but marched away with every confidence Belle would follow.
“Selena Mills?” Belle guessed. Rum had filled her in a bit about the new station promotion’s manager, and her...uh...interest in him.
“Seems like it,” Ruby murmured.
“Live in thirty,” Leroy warned. “Better not keep her waiting,” he suggested to Belle. “If she’s anything like her sister, she’ll find some way to make you regret it.”
Will escorted her out of the booth. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “Want me to come with?”
She shook her head before stopping dead in the hallway and throwing her arms around him. “You are a wonderful, wonderful man, Will Scarlet.”
“You American women are too easy,” he bluffed. “Smart, Beautiful and a sucker for an English accent.”
The station radio crackled to live as Ruby had started her show.
“Morning all, this is Little Red Rider live from SB101 for your all request lunch hour. For those just joining us, you can go to SB101.com to make requests, or you can tweet them live to @LittleRedRiderLive. You can also enter our newest contest, the True Love contest where you can enter to be a guest on the program of your choice, Morning Show, All Request Live, or Night Air.” She paused before adding in a mischievous voice,” all to celebrate the recent engagement of our very own Night Air, the wizard of the airwaves, Rum Skinner. That’s right folks, he’s off the market but yours truly and the Knave of our Hearts, Will Scarlet are both very much single and ready to mingle.”
“Oi!” Will complained, already heading back to the booth. “That’s not-”
For her part, all Belle could do was laugh.
That is until she arrived at Selena Mills’ office.
“Ah, better late than never,” Selene drawled. “Close the door.”
Belle drew it halfway closed, before sinking down into the couch on the far side of the office. Behind Selena, there was a rather large framed poster of Rum with a scrawled autograph in the top left corner. “I see you’re a fan of my fiance.”
Selena’s mouth drew back into a crocodile grin. “Oh, I’m his biggest fan. I have great plans for Rum Skinner and Night Air, so imagine my surprise when your DJ-”
“Talent.”
“Disc Jockey announced he was also taking part in the contest. As now is our request lunch hour.”
And if Belle was any judge of character, Snow & Tell would be joining the contest today as well.
“It’s a great promotion,” Belle lied through her teeth. “It allows for fans of the station to choose which program they most connect to, and we could easily double our ad revenue based on the entries-”
“I have no interest in doubling the ad revenue.”
“An odd thing for a promotions manager to say,” Belle replied back with a confused smile. “You know, I have some great ideas on how we can leverage all the talents across markets- maybe even go state-wide now that we have the support of Midas Air Network-”
“Let me be clear Ms. French, in a week’s time, there will be no SB101. The only thing worth anything in this scrapyard of a local radio station is Rum’s show, and I’ve already made sure that when the smoke clears, he and I will be far, far away from the mess my idiot of a sister has made.”
Belle paused before saying, “You mean the embezzling.”
In for a penny, in for a pound. One did not share their grand plans with people unless they were very, very secure or very, very stupid.
Selena chuckled. “Isn’t it obvious? I caught her at it over a year ago. A station manager can’t afford a summer house in Hyperion Heights, much less new Louboutins every season. I’ve been holding it over her head for a year now. Imagine her surprise when I leveraged all the evidence for a job. At the very station that she’s run into the ground. Not that she thought it strange. What people do for love and all that.”
The phone on her desk began to ring.
“Oh, one second, I’m expecting a call.” Selena fished the receiver off the hook. “Hello? Oh, yes, yes. Yes, thank you..”
Hanging the phone up, Selena turned back to Belle. “Now. It took me all weekend to figure out what I was going to do. You know, Ms. French, you made things rather difficult at first. But all things considered, you ended up being the solution, not the problem.”
Completely at a loss, Belle took a deep breath. “Well. While I appreciate you being so forthright to me about your sister’s illegal activities and your own plans, I really do need to get going. I want to make sure I get to the police station before lunch-”
Selena gave her a little faux pout. “Let me save you some time. Officer Rogers?”
The door swung open, revealing a tall, dark and handsome officer, who had a pair of handcuffs swinging from his fingers. He was sporting a rather terrifying grin. “Thanks for the call, Ms. Mills. Is this the one?” he asked, nodding towards Belle.
“The very one,” Selena said, trying to appear disappointed and failing miserably. Her own cat-eating the canary grin was about as chilling as Officer Rogers’. “I think if you check her office, you’ll find all the evidence you need for an embezzlement charge to stick.”
“Yes, Mr. Glass has already been very forthcoming on the subject. Seems he was using Ms. French’s station out in Avonlea to fence the cash.”
“Wait- what?” Belle bolted to her feet. “What are you talking about? I just started here-”
“Yes, all at the behest of Mr. Glass. He got you a job producing here when Midas started sniffing around to acquire the station, but by then it was too late. Really so awful. To embezzle money from a local family-run station.” Selena’s eyes were glistening with mirth. “And poor Mr. Skinner, falling for your little act. I must admit it was rather genius of you to blackmail him into proposing to you or risk losing his show. We all know how much it means to him.”
“But I-” Her words were cut off as Officer Rogers snapped the handcuffs, he was not gentle. Belle stared at Selena Mills in horror. “This isn’t happening.”
“Oh, but it is.” Regina Mills stood in the doorway, another officer, shorter and squatter, behind her in the hall. “Did you really think you’d get away with it, Ms. French?”
A plain woman without a penny to her name is a spinster in the making.
So said Septa Roelle, often and within Brienne’s hearing.
“No matter how high she was born,” she would add with a pointed look as if to ward off any argument on the subject.
Not that Brienne would dare doubt the validity of such a universal truth. After all, she owned a looking glass and had a pair of working eyes. Even if she had been deluded enough to ever believe the reflection in the glass was anything but homely, she was intelligent enough to wrinkle out the looks most people bestowed upon her was not the desired expressions for which a lady aspired.
It was not that Brienne Tarth was plain. She was also just too large all over, too odd, too wrong. Hard where a woman should be soft, flat where they should be round. Her body was broad of shoulders and hips but with no bosom to speak of to give it a woman’s shape. She was taller than any woman had a right to be, towering over most men and even some small saplings, but she was not willowy or graceful. She was quick on her feet, fast and sure-footed for her weight and height but it mattered little, no one had ever asked her to dance, nor would they.
Even if Brienne slumped her shoulders and fasted for a year, she would never be considered anything but truly unfortunate looking. While her eyes were the same bright blue as her father’s, her hair was like straw, dry and pale yellow, which hung limply about a broad, freckled-face. And if she smiled, she revealed an overbite filled with crooked, albeit thankfully healthy, teeth.
The only person who did not look at her with that odd mixture of pity and disgust was her father, Mister Selwyn Tarth, a kind and noble man with a generous but simple nature who was often cheated by his servants. The Tarths had lived at Evenfall Hall for as long as the manor had stood. Tarth was a proud name, albeit a poor one, which had come upon hard times in recent years.
To hear Septa Roelle tell it, Evenfall had once been a place of great merriment when Brienne’s brother and heir of Evenfall, Galloden, had still been alive. Energetic and strong, the young heir had helped his parents weather the deaths of their first two daughters, Arianne and Alysanne, both perishing while still in the cradle. The Tarths had tried once more, hoping for a son, a worthy playmate for Galloden but the Gods were cruel. They heard their prayers but instead of a son, they gave them a mockery of a daughter, one who was too large and too loud.
Though Mrs. Tarth had died when she was three, Brienne’s earliest memory was not of her mother’s funeral but of Galloden’s. On the eve of his eighth birthday, he had gone swimming in the great lake and gone too far. He had drowned, leaving Brienne the only surviving child of a widower. Her father had never remarried. He claimed was too poor to tempt any lady of respectable birth, and so he settled in amongst his books and his tinkerings and let the world pass him by.
Brienne did not have that same luxury. The local septa took up the reins of raising the child. According to the other servants, Roelle had moved in without so much of a by your leave. One day the guest bedroom above the kitchens was empty, the next it was not.
Colonel Goodwin often told Brienne the story of the day her father had finally looked up from his newspaper to find Septa Roelle sitting at the table, buttering Brienne’s bread. According to the story, her father had simply watched them for a moment before going right back to reading.
Two and ten years later, nothing much had changed. The dining hall was the same, as were the plates and cups. All ornate and well taken care of, but older and much out of style. The same could be said of the table and the people around it. Outside, the spring day was bright and there were blossoms starting to bud on the trees but there was a lingering chill that threatened winter had not yet had its say with them. Brienne was late in coming down the stairs to breakfast, having struggled to no end with her hair and wishing, not for the first time or the last, that she could cut it all off entirely.
Instead, she had left it in a loose braid that fell across the left side of her face, hiding the bruise that was quickly forming. “Morning father,” Brienne murmured, pressing a dutiful kiss to his smooth, wrinkled cheek. He mumbled back a reply as he flicked the pages to the next section but did not look up.
Lumbering to the other side of the table, Brienne carefully lowered herself into the wicker chair, grimacing as the worn and ancient chair groaned as it struggled to hold her heft. Before she so much as thought of reaching for a roll to break her fast, Brienne turned to her right, careful not to turn too far and reveal the reason she was late. She bowed her head. “Septa Roelle,” she greeted. “Good morrow.”
Narrow faced but broad of hip, Septa Roelle had the permanently pursed lips of the constantly disgruntled. “You’re late,” she reprimanded, spearing a sausage with her fork before depositing it unceremoniously on her plate. “I cannot account how that could be. The maids mentioned you were gone from your rooms by first light this morning. Not out visiting Colonel Goodwin, were you?”
Reaching for the milk, Brienne had to choke back a groan of pain as her muscles, weary and sore from her morning training, nearly buckled under the weight of the silver pitcher. “At this hour?” Brienne replied as she added a splash of fresh milk to her tea. “It would hardly be proper for me to call upon an unmarried gentleman before breakfast, Septa.”
Roelle sniffed, not fooled for an instant, but thankfully, she let it go. For now.
Brienne sent a quick prayer of thanks to the gods, even as a bolt of pain came coursing down her spine. Colonel Goodwin had caught her neatly on the back with a well-placed punch. It would have bruised nicely on its own but in her damned thrice dress, she had been caught off balance. She had gone staggering into the fence. She had ended up taking the entire section of whitewashed wood down with her to the ground.
Her muslin dress had been torn beyond ruin and every bone in her body hurt but nothing smarted so much as her pride. It should have been an easy jab to dodge but her left foot had gotten caught in her hem. No matter how many times she begged the Colonel to allow her to wear men’s garb while sparring, he refused. “Worse enough I agreed to teach you,” he said when they had first started training,” even with your father’s blessing. But your Septa would have my head if you were caught in trousers.”
Retired from the army, Colonel Goodwin had been passing through the country ten years ago when he had met Selwyn Tarth by chance in town. He had come to the manor for a meal, spotted Brienne at play in the distance and barked,” That’s a strapping lad! A natural-born pugilist if I ever saw one!”
When he got close enough to realize the lad was, in fact, a lass, the Colonel had not blustered or apologized, stammered or blushed. “My mistake,” he said to Tarth with a shake of his knotted hair, still black in those days though already streaked with silver. “But I stand by it.”
When the two men had gone inside the study to chat, Brienne had gone straight to the library to look up the word ‘pugilist’. She was soon standing in her father’s study before the two men brandishing The Art of Boxing and demanding to learn the sport. She had been seven and had never asked him for a thing in her entire life before that moment, as she and her father were both well aware.
And so, Colonel Goodwin, needing a place to stay and a roof over his head, had moved into the gardener’s quarters at the edge of the manor property where he tended to the grounds in between boxing lessons with the daughter of the household.
If her father thought she would grow bored or grow out of it, he was mistaken. Her natural reflexes, shape, and size were all well suited to the sport and having found something that felt right for the first time in her life, Brienne dedicated herself to the sport entirely. She would have trained morning, noon and night but Colonel Goodwin had insisted upon a more regimented schedule that balanced training with strength building and exercises to build stamina. Brienne had always loved being outdoors and adopted long walks down to the shore to her daily routine. Once upon the secluded shores, she would pick up boulders and hurl them down into the sea below until her shoulders ached and her arms were exhausted.
But the sport was not just physical nor innate. She had to be able to keep her wits, even when a well-placed punch to the face knocked her clear of her senses. She had to size up her opponent, know their size, shape and speed and how best to use it against them.
She was mentally going through the steps of the match she had just lost, trying to pinpoint when the colonel had gotten the better of her when Septa Roelle cleared her throat. “I received word that Morne Manor has been re-opened at long last.”
There was no sign from behind the newspaper that Selwyn Tarth had heard, much less cared.
“From what I have gathered, the Lannisters of Casterly Rock have decided to purchase it as a country seat for their youngest son. Despite his...shortcomings, he is a single man of great fortune; five or six thousand a year.”
When there was still no answer, Septa Roelle cleared her throat imperiously. She did this twice more until the left-hand ledge of the paper lowered to reveal the bright blue, water-shot eyes of Selwyn Tarth as he peered over the print at her. “Are you quite well, Septa?” he frowned. “You ought to see a maester about that cough.”
“Mister Tarth,” Roelle said tartly. “Did you hear any of the information to which I just imparted to you?”
Caught out, the master of the manor lowered his paper with a sigh. “Something about a gentleman newly arrived?”
“Yes, and you must go and call upon him at once.”
“Must?” he said warily.
Neither of them so much as looked at Brienne, who was rather wishing she had been knocked unconscious in the garden this morning. Her face was flushed and her skin was tight as she realized exactly what was happening.
No matter how many times men laughed, or excused themselves or just flat out ran in the other direction, Septa Roelle had never given up hope she would one day find her charge a husband. She had not even been swayed after Ronald Connington had mockingly labeled her charge Brienne the Beauty and the nickname had spread all over the Stormlands.
It would be one thing if the septa’s dedication was kindly meant but Brienne doubted Roelle’s obsession with the subject was borne out of any love or affection. It was more of some sort of twisted, proud duty to ensure her charge settled down as a proper lady instead of becoming a sideshow act.
“Indeed,” Septa Roelle confirmed. “You recall the Baratheons are throwing a ball at Storm’s End within a fortnight and Brienne will hardly be the only young woman in attendance in need of a husband. We must make his acquaintance before the assembly or it will be impossible for him to call upon Brienne beforehand. Consider your daughter’s future, sir.”
Once again, no one bothered to ask her what she wanted so Brienne opted to study the wood grain in the table. After a moment, she could feel her father’s eyes flicker over to her. She closed her eyes and bit her lip, all too aware of what he saw. What this Lannister would see. What they all saw. A freak in women’s clothing. An oddity. A beast.
“My, that is a very lovely bruise on your cheek, Brienne.” Brienne looked up guiltily, but her father was smiling at her, in that proud way he always did. “I do hope Mr. Lannister is fond of the color purple.”
Warmed by the reminder of his unusual but unconditional love and acceptance, Brienne offered her father a watery smile, loving him for loving her, scars and all.
“We will hardly know what this Mr. Lannister will or will not like,” Septa Roelle sniffed, ruining the moment entirely. “Not until you call upon him, Mister Tarth.”
Selwyn settled back into his chair. “As it happens,” he remarked, steepling his fingers. “I had the pleasure of calling upon Mr. Tyrion Lannister yesterday afternoon.”
Caught off guard, Septa Roelle forgot herself entirely and clapped her hands together. “Mister Tarth!” she exclaimed in her excitement. “What wondrous news!”
Brienne glanced between her septa, who looked relieved, and her father, who now looked immensely uncomfortable, and realized she was missing one crucial piece of information. She could never hope to win a man of great fortune with her looks and her dowry, much less a handsome or distinguished one…
Her father did not look at her but rather stood abruptly. Brienne watched him go, torn between running after him and running down to the shore and hiding until this Lannister had left the Stormlands entirely. Brienne had never wished she had spent more time listening to gossip than she did at this instance. Who was this wealthy Tyrion Lannister, and what was it to her?
“Well,” Septa Roelle said as she too rose from the table. “There’s much to be done. No telling when he will return your father’s visit. I’ll go speak with the cook to determine when we shall invite him to dinner. Oh, and Brienne?”
Brienne tilted her bruised face up to the woman who was the closest thing she had ever had to a mother. “Yes, Septa Roelle?”
The Septa’s stubby fingers grazed tenderly over Brienne’s upturned face, lingering lightly upon the bruise that would soon cover the lower half of her jaw. “No boxing until after the ball.”
The day of the assembly, Morne Manor was busier than it had been in over a decade. The carriages had finally arrived from Casterly Rock just yesterday with all the trappings and furnishings that befitted the scion of the lion.
Not that Tyrion had wanted any of the crimson or gold hangings. All Tyrion had cared about was the bottles of brandy from the Rock. And the wine from the arbor. Though to be fair he had also expressed considerable annoyance over the lack of port.
Thankfully, all had arrived with the rest of his things, not that Tyrion was around to notice. His new steward had things well in order, though he was an odd, rough sort of man. Tyrion had picked him up somewhere along the mountain roads. Gruff and sly, Bronn Blackwater had seemed an odd choice for steward to Jaime’s eye, but Tyrion enjoyed the man and so far he had proved proficient.
All in all, Tyrion was overall delighted with the ancient place and its idiosyncrasies. He had already found two hidden passages and a carving he was convinced dated back to the Andals.
For his part, Jaime was ready to flee back to Casterly Rock. From what he had seen thus far, the Stormlands were a destitute, rocky wasteland. Morne Manor itself had been nearly in ruins when Tyrion had decided to purchase the estate. The youngest son of Tywin Lannister had read about it some book somewhere and decided on a whim to make it his new home. Though why anyone would want to live in the Stormlands instead of the Riverlands, Jaime couldn’t have said.
“It’s ghastly here,” Cersei echoed, even though he had not uttered a word. His cousin stood beside him at the head of the staircase, watching the servants scuttle this way, spilling from the doorway like black ants. With a sigh, Cersei turned away from the organized chaos unfolding below. “Take a stroll with me,” she purred, more a demand than a request. Before he could answer, she took him by the arm and began to stroll up the hallway, letting her head rest upon his bicep.
He tensed, ever so slightly, eyes cutting around them as they walked. In a town this size, someone would always be watching, if only out of boredom rather than malice. Another reason he could not wait for Tyrion to grow bored with this little game and return back to the Rock.
He did not disentangle himself from Cersei but he could not quite relax either. Born on the same day, the firstborn children of the Lannister twin brothers, Cersei and Jaimie were as close as any siblings. They had grown up together but lately, Cersei had been hinting at something new...at taking their relationship from those of cousins to that of something more intimate...to an understanding.
She was a beautiful woman, smart and intelligent, and he cared for her, yes, but something held him back. He could not say what it was other than an innate certainty that her interest was less for the love of him and more of a desire to be known as Lady Lannister of Casterly Rock, instead of just simply Ms. Lannister.
As they turned down the west wing hallway, a door creaked open just as they passed, revealing the empty library. “There you are, Jaime,” Tyrion declared. “I’ve been looking for you.”
Cersei gave a sweet, short laugh. “Well. Small wonder you couldn’t find him in the library. Your brother was seeing to the preparation of the house, something the master of the house should be overseeing. Not tucked away in some musty old library. For such an intelligent fellow, you tend to be terribly short-sighted, Tyrion. ”
Not missing her emphasis, Tyrion gave their cousin a grin. “I’m surprised you can even see me from that high horse of yours, cuz.”
Cersei’s green eyes, so like Jaime’s, flashed in rage. “Have a care how you speak to me, sir. I need only stand in my stocking feet to look down upon you.”
“No fine feat considering most children can as well,” Tyrion agreed. “Which is why I have need of my brother here. I cannot reach one of the shelves and my ladder has not yet arrived.”
Knowing they could go on for hours, Jaime disentangled himself from Cersei. “Now, now, children. Manners.”
Cersei knew Jaime well enough to pick up that he was in no mood for their diatribes today. She smoothed her face back into a courteous smile. “You’re quite right, Jaime, dear. Besides, I should go see that these country maids have managed to iron my gown without ruining it.”
Without so much as a glance at Tyrion, she pressed a kiss to Jaime’s cheek before departing. Jaime lingered just long enough to admire the way her hips swayed in the scarlet silk gown she had custom designed from Bravos. Empire-waisted, she had explained when she had first shown it to him. He wasn’t sure what that meant but it did fit her tall, willowy figure admirably-
Tyrion chuckled under his breath. “Our dear cousin is rather out of her element in the Stormlands, isn’t she?” He looked up at Jaime knowingly. “I must say, it did rather surprise me when our sweet cousin voluntarily chose to accompany us to my new estate.”
“As I told you, once I’ve seen you settled, I will accompany Cersei to King’s Landing for the winter,” he reminded Tyrion.
“Right, right,” Tyrion muttered as he waddled back into the library. Jaime followed after him, feeling already ill at ease in the massive room. Every surface was covered in books. Their father had been happy to get rid of his black sheep of a son, happy enough to send a majority of the Rock’s library with him to the Stormlands without an argument.
“Where were you this morning?” Jaime inquired as he followed behind Tyrion towards the back of the library. “I had hoped to take a ride down to the shore before the weather turned.”
Tyrion screwed up his face. “I have no interest in riding down to any body of water.” He patted his short, squat legs with a leer. “I’m not made for swimming. I’d sink like a stone.” Jaime ignored this. Tyrion always used his stature as an excuse to avoid anything more strenuous than going down to the kitchen cellars. “Besides, I called on Selwyn Tarth at Evenfall Hall.”
Jaime was not familiar with the names. “For what purpose?”
Tyrion climbed up into the chair specially designed for him. “In all honesty? I had hoped to catch a sight of his daughter.”
Jaime groaned. “Tyrion-”
“The Beauty of Tarth,” Tyrion continued, pointing to a blue book on the top leftmost shelf. “Fetch that for me, would you?”
Jaime did as he was asked. “Lives of the Nine Septons?” he read quizzically. “Feeling rather pious lately, dear brother?”
Tyrion harrumphed. “Not on your life. I was looking for the Jade Compendium. I could have sworn it was that same color. Perhaps over here…”
Tyrion hopped back down and headed across the back wall of windows towards the far corner. Jaime trailed after him. “This beauty,” Jamie said, knowing his brother well enough to know where this was going. “Does she….”
“Know I’m a dwarf?” Tyrion said with a leer over his shoulder. “I haven’t the foggiest. If it hasn’t gotten out by now, I suppose she and the rest of the Stormlands will learn of it tonight at the assembly.” He paused, looking this way and that. “Where could it have gotten?”
Jaime knelt down and placed a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Tyrion, I know this whole business has been...strenuous.”
“Oh, the part about un-inheriting me unless I give up my claim to Castlery Rock and settle down with a respectable wife on the other side of Westeros?” Tyrion was smiling but his eyes were hard. “Or the part where my dear brother informed my father of my plans to elope to Gretna Green with a crofter’s daughter?” He brushed Jaime’s hand off his shoulder. “Forget the book. I should follow Cersei’s lead and prepare for the assembly. I want to make an impression, after all.”
“Tyrion-” Jaime began but it was too late. His brother had already turned the corner and disappeared down another stack of shelves, leaving Jamie Lannister alone in the library alone with only his good intentions.
--
Tyrion Lannister was a dwarf.
The entire assembly was abuzz about this development. It was the most shocking piece of gossip in over a century and no one was immune to its salacious nature. People reporting back also admitted to finding the gentleman gifted with an easy, unaffected manner paired with a sharp wit that was delightfully well wielded.
Attention soon also shifted to his companions: a brother and cousin. Beautiful in the classic way that was so en vogue at the moment, the pair looked so alike they could have been twins, from the way their green eyes narrowed in disdain to the way their full lips curled up in amused derision.
Half the ladies were already in love with the gentleman before they even learned that he had ten thousand pounds a year. After that, there was a great burst of fuss and fluttering before it became clear that though rich and handsome, his manners left much to be desired. Jaime Lannister was curt in conversation, rude in his responses, and refused to dance despite the numerous ladies sitting along the wall. He was quickly declared to be the most disagreeable man anyone had ever met.
On the other hand, Tyrion Lannister, despite his stature, had already made the acquaintance of nearly every person in attendance. Every corner soon buzzed about his latest quip or joke, if not remarking on the cold beauty of his companions.
In all the excitement, Brienne’s usual tormentors did not notice or care that she was even in attendance. She had been left mercifully alone for the entire evening, having selected a spot along the back wall upon her arrival but as more and more guests arrived, her haven was soon overrun.
Heading out of the gathering crush before she garnered any unwanted attention, Brienne was in the process of trying to make herself as small as humanly possible (which did not work any better than it ever had or would for someone over six feet tall) when she nearly stepped on the gentleman of the hour.
“My apologies, my lord,” Brienne hurried to amend, dropping into a rough courtesy. “I didn’t see you- I mean-”
The dwarf threw his head back up at her and then, to her disbelief, laughed. “No, I don’t think you could from all the way up there,” he agreed. One black eye and one green sparkled up at her. Tyrion Lannister was almost half her size, with a face almost as unfortunate as her own, but it was plain to see he was at ease with himself, as confident in his own skin as any man.
Before Brienne could muddle things further, her father materialized at their sides, handing Brienne a glass of punch. “Ah, Mister Lannister, I see you’ve met my daughter. Brienne, this is Tyrion Lannister, Lord of Morne Manor.”
“This is your daughter?” Tyrion said, clearly taken aback. Uncertain of what to say or do, Brienne offered him another courtesy. He recovered quickly, a smile back on his odd face. “Delighted to make your acquaintance, Ms. Brienne,” Tyrion said, offering her his own small bow. “I am afraid I’ve promised this dance and the next and the next.”
“I thank you, but I do not dance, good sir,” Brienne said hastily as the music started to summon the dancers back to their places.
“Sad tidings. We would be quite a pair,” he said with a cheerful wink, that was not at all mockery. It was more like an inside joke, and Brienne found herself relaxing despite herself, something she never did at balls. “Till we meet again, Miss Tarth.”
As her father spied one of his old business partners and moved to speak with him, Brienne retired to the edge of the hall. There were a few other ladies lingering against the wall, but none of them spared her a glance. Everyone knew Brienne Tarth and no one was worried they may be slighted for a dance in her favor.
With her height, Brienne was able to see everything on the dance floor with ease despite the occasional plumage in a lady’s coiffure. She remained there, watching the events of the evening unfold and hoping her father would grow tired soon and they could leave. Septa Roelle would be waiting to hear all about the evening and Brienne wanted to have plenty to tell her. She would just leave out the part where she had stood in a corner the whole evening.
Unintentionally, Brienne's gaze was drawn to the pair of lions on the far side of the room. It was hard to miss such a splendid pair. Tyrion’s older brother, Jaime Lannister, was indeed a handsome man but his face seemed to be permanently contorted into a sour glower. He stood with his arms crossed and did not speak to a single person with the exception of his brother and the stunningly beautiful woman at his side.
Cersei Lannister, a cousin on their father’s side, was by all reports an accomplished woman. She too was tall, but still at least two heads shorter than her cousin. She had the same blonde hair as the Lannister brothers but hers was pinned in curled ringlets, tightly coiled and shining as if it was actual gold in the lamplight. Her dress was of the latest fashion, only seen thus far in magazines from town, and outshone all the drab, simple cotton dresses the rest of the ladies wore.
The handsome pair had already danced once and soon Cersei Lannister danced with three other men. All the while, Jaime Lannister did not move from his spot.
Despite being the early days of autumn, the day had been unseasonably humid and the evening continued to be as such. Brienne soon grew too warm in her vantage spot and was obliged to move towards the back wall where the doors were opened up to let the night air circulate into the hall.
She took a seat upon the benches lining the wall, and let her eyes fall shut as she listened to the last song fade away. When the song changed, she opened her eyes to find she could no longer see the dancers. A few couples had retired to this edge of the dancefloor to catch their breath, amongst them Tyrion Lannister who was joined by his brother.
“Come, Jaime,” Tyrion wheedled. “You looked wretched standing there twiddling your thumbs. I’ve seen you dance at the Rock. These dances are not so different.”
His brother scoffed. “I prefer to be acquainted with my dancing partner. And the only lady in my acquaintance present has been engaged for the majority of the evening.”
“There are plenty of pretty girls,” Tyrion protested. “And if none of them turn your fancy, I just met the most wonderful specimen of woman. The Beauty of Tarth. You must let me introduce you.”
For some reason, hearing Tyrion Lannister utter that moniker stung. Brienne stood, intending to find refuge in the music room for the remainder of the evening but she miscalculated.
At the sudden movement behind him, Jaime Lannister half turned and caught sight of her just as Tyrion announced, “She can’t be hard to spot, she’s taller than you are! ”
Brienne hastily averted her gaze. She could feel Jaime Lannister consider her for a moment before he turned his back on her. “I am in no humor at present to give consequence to slighted young ladies, tolerable or no.” The apothecary's daughter appeared, requesting a dance from Tyrion who happily obliged her. As the pair hurried to join the reel, Jaime Lannister walked away as well, leaving Brienne to sink back down to the bench.
Thankfully, the evening passed quickly after that encounter. When she and her father returned to Evenfall Hall, Septa Roelle was still up with The Seven Pointed Star. She put it aside and stood hastily. “Well?”
Selwyn Tarth hid a yawn behind his hand. “Apologies, my dear, septa,” he murmured through another yawn. “I’m quite done for. If you’ll excuse me-”
Brienne found herself quite alone with Septa Roelle, who was inspecting her closely. They had hidden the bruise under powder and rouge and done Brienne’s hair up as best they could but it had fallen with the humidity and was currently hanging lackluster around her face. Thankfully, her gown had been spared the usual “accidental” punch spill this time. It was rather damp under the arms and would need a good laundering but was otherwise still presentable.
Brienne was also quite exhausted but she knew she would have no peace until she recounted the entire tale from start to finish. Lowering herself to the chaise, she kicked off her slippers, which had pinched her feet mercilessly and caused her to mince for the last hour or so.
“How did you find Mr. Tyrion Lannister?” Roelle prompted.
“Short,” Brienne answered honestly. “But overall well mannered if not prone to being a bit libel with his consummation of brandy.”
Roelle frowned at this. “Did you dance with him?”
Brienne flushed. “I did not have the honor, Septa, no.”
“And what of his brother?” Septa Roelle continued, though she made no attempt to hide her disappointment. “I’ve heard he is quite handsome and is to have ten thousand pounds a year-”
“He has an understanding with his cousin, a Miss Cersei Lannister,” Brienne lied. Well, she did not know it was a lie. It could very well be true. And if it wasn’t, Septa Roelle would hear about it, no doubt.
“Hmm, well, I cannot say I had expected any different,” Septa Roelle said as she settled back into her seat. “I simply thought perhaps…”
A dwarf would be desperate enough to marry a giant. It would have been rather funny if Brienne had not been the butt of the joke.
