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insignificantly-notorious · 3 days

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general incivility, chapter three

- a brienne x jamie pride & prejudice retelling -

chapter one l chapter two l chapter three

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 Jamie 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. Jamie 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 Jamie in some misguided guise to remind Tyrion he was a Lannister. Poor, dim Jamie 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 Jamie to come with him. He had barely spoken to his brother since Tysha but Jamie 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 Jamie had always been loved for his beauty and brawn and 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 Jamie Lannister hated.

On the way back from the assembly, Tyrion had pressed Jamie 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.

Jamie 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.

Jamie 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.

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