Chapter Text
Heavy grey clouds hang low over King’s Landing as if drawn to their own reflection in the puddles scattered across the ground. The air was thick with humidity, carrying the lingering smell of heated concrete and the promise of another rain.
Brienne walked quickly, sidestepping the pools of water and hoping to make it before the next downpour. It wasn’t easy. Her old shoes slid in the mud, requiring a considerable effort to steady herself with each step.
The estate she was heading to was new, completed just last year and handed over mostly for the use of the bus factory located nearby. The number of flats was also given to the university, whereas the best were reserved for a special list. In other words, for lucky people in the right positions with the right connections. And yet, despite the high profile of the inhabitants, no one had bothered to pave a proper path from the bus stop. Brienne would bet her monthly student scholarship on the paving stones being stolen before they ever reached the construction site.
First drops of rain fell on her face, cold against her flushed skin. Brienne quickened her steps, trying her best to balance the box in her hands. The rainy weather had only one advantage– the precious content of the box she spent the whole previous evening creating wouldn’t melt in the summer heat.
Not that there had been much heat this summer. It had shown little mercy so far, with constant rains, sudden thunderstorms, and a damp chill that seemed to cling to everything. It felt like the North came to Brienne before she even had the chance to come to terms with her sudden delegation to the land of always winter. Though it should have been expected that the Party would send the daughter of a well-known dissident away from the centre of social and political life. A precaution, in case she got any stupid ideas.
Brienne let out a heavy sigh, trying to push away the gloomy thoughts. Margaery wouldn’t appreciate ruining the cheerful mood of her home welcoming party. Brienne would have to grit her teeth and smile. Who knew if they were going to see each other once again before Brienne’s departure? If it was their last meeting, then there was no point in becoming resentful of her best friend taking the best out of her family connections. Most people would do the same were they in her shoes.
Finally, she entered the estate, her breath visible in the cold evening air. A row of identical buildings stretched before her, one after another, with another block standing perpendicular to them. Brienne couldn’t help but notice the striking whiteness of the walls. They fear the ravens, the thought came with a small smile.
Over the past few months, painters and janitors had a busy time in the Flea Bottom and lower city to remove the plague of white ravens appearing on the walls, fences, advertisement boards and trees, along with the leaflets trashing the streets. Painting everything in white was so far the only response from the authorities. A preemptive strike to slow down “the spreading of the disease” as The Raven of Truth put it eloquently after the couple of first incidents, before shutting up and pretending the rise of resistance against the system was not happening.
Brienne looked around, trying to orient herself between the identical white blocks. Revolutionary Road, 30. That was the address, yet she failed to see any numbers. Damn it. They must have been painted on the other side of the buildings if they were painted at all. Paint was hard to get by even before the uprising of the white birds.
Brienne recalled passing an old building numbered 26 on her way from the bus stop. Logically, the perpendicular block ahead must be 28. That meant the first building in front of her had to be 30, with 32 and 34 lined up behind it.
Feeling the rain getting stronger, she quickly headed inside. But just in front of the steps, her foot slipped. For one awful moment, Brienne felt herself tipping forward – gods, not the cake! – then a wet splash. The cold water soaked through her trousers as her knee hit a puddle.
But at least the box was saved. Brienne looked down at the ugly muddy stain, trying not to think how it would look against Margaery’s newest imported myroshi dress.
The staircase hit her with its unblemished walls and slightly stale air that, compared to the smell of urine and mold mixed with alcohol in the staircase of her own old block, was all daisy field.
“Are you lost? What are you looking for here?”
Brienne didn’t immediately notice an older woman in a colourful, flowery robe over a simple white shirt, knitting in a booth behind the glass.
“I’m just…”
The doorkeeper eyed her suspiciously, her disapproving gaze lingering on the muddy shoes and ruined trousers before fixing on the box in Brienne’s hands.
“Another one for a party?” the woman huffed with irritation at Brienne’s curt nod. “I swear to gods that the youth these days have nothing but parties in mind. If I hear a single complaint about your lot tomorrow…”
“We’ll try to be as quiet as possible,” Brienne said carefully to not make promises impossible to keep.
“You always say the same bloody thing,” the doorkeeper shook her head. “And don’t think that sending the golden boy will save you this time. Enough is enough.”
“You’re probably confusing us with someone else,” Brienne said defensively. “My friend has just recently moved in. She didn’t have time to throw that many parties.”
“Look at her! She’s going to talk back to me here. I know what’s going on in this damned building better than anyone else. Do you think I sit in this aquarium for fun?” the woman behind the glass swelled up like an offended pigeon. “You could at least show some decency and hold all those bloody parties until the end of the quarter after the committee awards the title to the most deserving building. And it won’t be ours if you keep behaving like a pack of wild boars. Now, get your arse out of my sight, lass. Third floor. Move it.”
Brienne briefly wondered if the committee had ever spoken to the old woman before even nominating the building for the honourable badge of House of High Culture of Life. But she decided not to linger there, as being threatened with knitting needles on top didn’t exactly inspire further argument. The first person to win it against Old Fish would certainly become a city legend. Brienne was in no mood to try now. Or maybe she just didn’t want to find out about all the other gatherings at Margaery’s place she hadn’t been invited to.
The sounds of the ongoing party reached her way before Brienne got to the third floor, and indicated the event was considerably bigger than Margaery had previously let her on. It shouldn’t be a surprise. After all, many people wanted to keep the granddaughter of the manager of the largest farms in the Reach in good graces. It was more unexpected that she would rather befriend someone like Brienne, undesirable by association, and hardly a social asset.
She took a deep breath before pressing a doorknob. The door opened with a slight creak, revealing a long dark hall. Plain smooth walls were painted in some bright colour that in the absence of windows and light appeared just as grey as life itself. The hanger almost disappeared under the pile of jackets and blazers, while various types of shoes sprawled underneath, most of them way more expensive than anything Brienne would be able to afford. Adding her muddy contribution to the pile, she carefully went towards the loud mix of voices.
The sight that greeted her was nothing short of a nightmare – a room full of fancy dressed people. What was even worse, she didn’t recognise their faces at all. Her entrance turned their heads, and Brienne tried to ignore the mix of surprised, questioning and slightly disapproving looks while she scanned the crowd for a familiar face. Margaery, Renly, Loras, their plentiful cousins or even one of the Starks. But none were here.
“Looking for our dear hostess?”
A ginger man approached her, his curious eyes and easy-going smile unfamiliar. But he at least seemed friendlier than the rest of the party, who, after the first critical assessment of her, returned to their conversations.
“Yes. I’m sorry I’m late, the bus…” Well, for once it arrived on time. But that was the limit of her luck because soon the engine kept dying, struggling against the hills of King’s Landing. By the third breakdown, the driver gave up, leaving everyone to fend for themselves. The remaining distance Brienne walked on foot, praying to anyone in power to withhold the rain until she reached her destination. The excuse was as good as it could get, but why would a stranger care about it? “Well, never mind. Do you know where she is?”
“In her room, changing the dress. Again.” It sounded a lot like Margaery, Brienne had to admit as she watched the man roll his eyes, but the grimace held more amusement than disapproval. “And you must be new?”
“Looks like it,” she said, mentally berating herself for never asking about a guestlist. But Margaery swore it was going to be just a small gathering for the closest friends. So much for that. Brienne felt her hands getting sweaty. “Er… where can I put the box?”
“The kitchen.” He nodded to the far door. “Leave it there and come back. Everyone would love to get to know you.”
Sure they will. Brienne gave a stiff nod and turned on her heel. I’ll survive it, I’ve been through worse. There was nothing a bunch of strangers could do or say that she hadn’t experienced before. She only hoped she didn’t drag this cake all the way here just to be laughed at.
Brienne stepped into something that could barely be called a kitchen, more like a cluttered burrow. The narrow room was crammed with a roaring fridge, a table, and a modern stove wedged between two counters. Every surface, including two wooden stools, was buried under dirty pots, plates, empty caviar tins, mayonnaise jars, and bottles of bubble wine. Everything was also sprinkled generously with bread crumbs as the final touch to this utter chaos.
Normally, Brienne would sigh and start clearing space for the cake. Instead, she froze, completely bewildered by the sight in front of her. It took her brain a few long seconds to comprehend that among all this mess, she was staring at a man on all fours, half-disappeared in a wall niche just above the floor.
His lower half stuck out, and against her better judgement, Brienne couldn’t help but notice a very flattering fit of his jeans.
She swallowed, her mouth suddenly going dry. Mesmerised by the view, she kept blinking like an ox at the painted gate, not sure how or if she should announce her presence.
Fortunately (or not), she was spared the further deliberation when an irritated voice echoed from the niche.
“I feel you burning another hole in my arse.” The man backed out slowly, holding something in his hand. “You just couldn’t hide this damned bottle any deeper, could you?”
“I didn’t…”
The man turned, making her forget whatever she was going to say. She had never seen such an immaculate combination of breathtakingly handsome face, messy golden locks and perfectly sculpted body. Not to mention the sight she just witnessed a moment ago. No, looking at such beauty all given to a single person was unbearable. A cruel reminder that life wasn’t fair, no matter how many posters screamed about equality and a fair share for all.
But the most concerning thing about him was the fact that Brienne hadn’t the slightest idea who he was. Knowing her friend, there was no way Margaery would forget to mention the presence of such a handsome guest. Unless… he wasn’t invited to be here.
Brienne eyed him warily, her mind racing with all the stories she had heard about HOBOs (Houseless Objects for Bureaucratic Observation) lurking through the housing blocks, testing doorknobs for carelessly unlocked flats and snatching anything of value they could find. Especially high-percentage beverages. Brienne’s gaze stopped on the bottle in his hand, half-full with a clear colourless liquid. Yes, that would make perfect sense had HOBOs been known for looking like poster models, wearing imported jeans and expensive shirts.
“It’s quite rude to be staring like this,” the man was the first to break the silence that was becoming heavier with every second. Brienne felt her face getting hotter as the smirk on the stranger’s face grew wider. “Though I suppose I’ll take it as a compliment rather than an offence.”
“It’s quite rude to deep dive into other people’s kitchens, isn’t it?” she parried back to hide her utmost mortification of being caught looking where she wasn’t supposed to. The man, on the other hand, didn’t look embarrassed at all for being called out.
He put down the bottle on the edge of the table as if daring it not to fall from the slightest blow of the air. The smile never disappeared from his face as he folded his arms over his chest, although his eyes remained sharp.
“And who would you be? Citizens’ Militia or perhaps the House of High Culture of Life committee?”
“What? No!” Brienne recoiled. She’d rather spend a lifetime in a mine than join any of them.
“Right, you certainly don’t look a part.” His gaze travelled from the muddy stain on her trousers to her face. The man was tall, but she still had an inch over him. “Delivery then?”
“Once again, no. I was invited to a party.”
“Are you sure? No freshly procured product in there?” He winked at her and pointed at the box. “Country milk makes you grow, wouldn’t you agree?”
Brienne blinked. What? Her eyes darted to the bottle he retrieved from the niche. Oh. So that was it. Yet another one devoted to a secret shot. Thanks to the likes of him, alcohol at the stores disappeared faster than one could blink. The government increased the production after last winter’s riots caused by the unexpected shortage, but the stores still showed nothing but empty shelves. At least the white fever kept madhouses full and busy.
“Just snack it in between,” Brienne gave the man a look that hopefully conveyed her thoughts on the likes of him.
She turned to the nearest patch of semi-clean counter, hoping to finally free her hands and go on a search for her friend. But before she could make a step, the man moved in front of her, effectively blocking her path. He was still smiling, yet Brienne didn’t fail to notice a growing wariness in his eyes.
“You’re not going to drop a suspicious package here and then conveniently disappear, are you?” He said, and Brienne had to fight the sudden urge to retreat at a hint of silent threat in his soft tone. “What’s inside?”
“A cake.”
“A cake?” He raised his eyebrow.
“Yes? I don’t tend to come empty-handed to parties,” Brienne said defiantly.
“I’d assume you don’t tend to come to parties at all.”
Before Brienne could react, his hand was already on the box, opening the lid.
“Hey, what are you doing?” She slapped his fingers away, balancing to not drop the box.
“I was hoping to get a piece. I’m willing to take a risk and check if it tastes better than it looks.”
“It’s not for you!”
“What do you mean? Just don’t tell me it’s for Cersei. She already got one.”
“Who?”
“Cersei? Our birthday girl? Doesn’t it ring a bell?”
Truthfully, it didn’t. The man could’ve been just a few years older than her, but the brain damage from the alcohol must have been greater than one would expect. But he brought it on himself and there was no time to deal with it now.
“Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to find Margaery.”
The man tilted his head, his smile faltering and slowly turning into a frown. Now it was his turn to ask.
“Who?”
Brienne let out a frustrated sigh.
“Margaery? Whose flat do you think it is?”
He blinked a few times, looking at her as if she were speaking a foreign language and then let out a little chuckle.
“A snack?” he offered, taking a plate from the table with a single sad shrunken pickle.
“No need, I don’t drink,” Brienne replied coldly, glancing at the door.
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely. Now, if you excuse me…”
“Yes, yes, you need to find some Margaery. But I spare you the effort and a certain embarrassment. The thing is, there is no Margaery in here.”
“We’ll see about that.”
Clutching the box closer to her chest in an attempt to protect it from the handy stranger, Brienne barely had time to process the bizarre exchange before the kitchen door swung open.
“Jaime!”
A new voice echoed in the kitchen. Quick, sharp, and definitely exasperated. And it was coming… Brienne looked down to identify its owner. A short man with almost white hair stormed inside with surprising agility, considering his stunted legs.
“Jaime, did you get that bloody solvent?” the dwarf continued, boring his mismatched eyes into the annoying man. “Cersei is freaking out. She’ll drown us both in that paint if that stupid stain doesn’t– ” He stopped mid-sentence, finally noticing Brienne. His brows lifted. “Whoa. And who is this?” A little smirk lit up his face as he turned once more to the other man. “When were you planning to tell me about your girlfriend?”
The laugh filled the room and Brienne felt a hot wave of embarrassment colouring her face. Jokes were nothing new, the same as a little sting somewhere deep down her heart.
“No, it’s a personal cake delivery,” Jaime said smoothly, sending her a wink.
“I am not!”
“...But maybe I’ll take my shot here.”
The dwarf chuckled. “Right. I’d like to witness that, believe me. But now we have a crisis. A hurricane in making. And its name is Cersei.”
“Can’t you handle it on your own, Tyrion?” Jaime scoffed. “Or do you need a bodyguard in case it doesn’t work?”
“Don’t even say that,” Tyrion muttered, grabbing the bottle and assessing its contents with a critical eye. “Such a possibility is impossible.”
Jaime laughed. “Just like Cersei not rummaging through your wardrobe?”
“No, just like my brother having some sense and not stashing milk in there.” Tyrion shot him a glare. “Now we must clean this fucking mess.”
As Brienne observed the exchange between two supposedly related men, the feeling that something was not right finally hit her with full force. She took a closer look at the dwarf. She never met him before, of that she was sure. But she heard the whispers. Quiet as not to attract the attention of Citizens Militia and Security Service but still too prevalent to remain completely ignorant. Especially in Margaery’s circles, everyone knew and quietly mocked the Head of the Party for his efforts to hide his unfortunate familial connection and pretend it didn’t exist.
The last meeting with Margaery a few weeks ago suddenly resurfaced in Brienne’s memory. Still uncertain about the destination of her upcoming relocation, she didn’t pay much attention to her friend’s excited chatter about the new flat she was moving into and didn’t give much meaning to the smirk on Margaery’s face and the meaningful remark about interesting neighbours she was going to have.
The lightning flashed in the room together with a frightening realisation.
“It’s not Margaery’s place, isn’t it?” she said, not addressing anyone in particular.
Tyrion Lannister turned away from the door to give her a sceptical look.
“As far as I know, this is still my place. Unless my dear father was reminded of my existence and decided to make it even more exciting.”
This was all she needed to know. She wasn’t supposed to be there and if she had enough sense, she’d already be outside, the thunderstorm be damned. Yet, she found herself rooted to the spot, unable to move under the sharp gazes of two pairs of eyes.
“But it’s Revolutionary Road 30, flat 44.”
The brothers exchanged looks. Another lightning lit their amused expressions. Jaime was the first to speak.
“You almost got it right, cake girl. We’re at Revolutionary Road 34, flat 44.”
“No way…”
A loud thunder swallowed their laughter.