Chapter Text
Chapter One
And A Very Happy Holiday To You, Mr. Lannister
Brienne Tarth fiddled with the display of scarves and mittens that she had managed to jumble with an errant elbow for the second time that morning. Lannister and Sons Department Store, located in the heart of Kings Landing’s shopping district, had many different departments. Accessories was the seventh area she had been assigned to in her four weeks as a Winterfest season hire.
The Accessories department was so crowded, the tables so close and overloaded with items meant to catch the eyes of shoppers desperate to complete their Winterfest gift list. Every time Brienne turned around, she was in danger of knocking something over. She was already going to lose much of her week’s pay packet replacing the dented display sign that had been yesterday’s disaster.
If only she could work in Sporting Goods, as she’d practically begged Mr. Tarly when she was hired.
Still, Accessories was better than her miserable week in Ladies Lingerie. The nasty, gossipy salesgirls had been more than happy to point out her every deficiency, and not a single customer had been willing to have her massive hands measuring them for foundation garments.
Much of her pay packet that week had gone to buying two bras that met the standards of the formidable Head Buyer for Ladies Wear, Mrs. Tyrell.
And now her shoulders were uncomfortable from overly tight straps of her AA purchase from the “Mademoiselle’s First Brassiere” collection. At least Brienne had been able to put her foot down when padding her minuscule bosoms had been mentioned. Convincing Mrs. Tyrell that Brienne had nothing and wanted nothing to “lift and separate” had been a special kind of humiliation, kind as the older woman had tried to be during her fitting.
And let us not even speak of the Toy Department, where she’d spent a horrible afternoon sweating in faux direwolf furs as Lord Snow’s tallest child of the forest.
Brienne heaved another sigh as she waited and hoped that she’d make at least one decent-sized sale before the lunch break. She leaned as inconspicuously as possible against the counter, trying to relieve her aching feet in the thin-soled pumps that should have been replaced at least six months ago.
If she were in Sporting Goods, she might be allowed to wear sensible brogues rather than these silly heels that were older than the secretarial diploma that she had wasted her modest inheritance from her father to obtain.
As if any man wanted an over six-foot, desperately homely secretary in his outer office. What had she been thinking?
Getting the holiday season job at Lannister’s had been the very best that had been offered in three long months of hunting.
Sighing again, Brienne straightened up as Mr. Tarly, the head of the floor managers, and his cohort of dark-suited, white carnationed assistants came through to take one last look at the displays before the main doors were opened to the day’s customers. He stopped to sneer at the counter Brienne had just finished straightening. His slavish group of followers echoed his expression.
“Miss Tarth,” Tarly barked, “what is the meaning of this? Is this a display you feel is worthy of Lannister and Sons? Sloppy, sloppy, sloppy. Redo it. Immediately!”
As Tarly moved on to the next cowering salesclerk, his crew of acolytes tut-tutted as each passed Brienne. Brienne barely stopped herself from rolling her eyes to the heavens as she once again began refolding the scarves and mittens into hopefully Lannister’s worthy piles.
‘Boy, Tarly sure has it in for you, huh, Stretch?” Hyle Hunt, the stock boy who delivered the merchandise to the ground floor of Lannister’s, leaned against the display counter, getting fingerprints on the glass that Brienne had already spent ten minutes cleaning.
Holding onto her patience with both hands, Brienne frowned down at the shorter man. “I don’t know what I could have done to anger him so badly.”
“Nobody has to do anything to anger old man Tarly. He was just born mean.” Hyle frowned at Brienne’s hands as they tried to make perfect squares out of the long woolen scarves on her countertop.
“Here, Stretch, let me do that. If you make a hash out of it, Tarly will not be happy.”
“Thanks, Hyle. My hands just aren’t made for this fiddly work. I wish I could repay you.”
“I know how you can. Come to Clegane’s with me tonight. There’s a pool tournament, and between the two of us, we’ll be unbeatable. The prize is a cool fifty dragons.”
“Fifty dragons!?” Her half of that prize would pay off the cost of the display sign and still leave plenty for Brienne to buy groceries this week rather than scrounging out of the employee cafeteria.
But the last place a “Lannister’s Girl” should be seen was a low-rent pool hall like Clegane’s. If Tarly got even a whiff that Brienne had gone there, he’d fire her for moral turpitude faster than she could chalk up a cue.
Brienne glanced around to ensure no one was paying any attention to their conversation. “I can’t take the chance, Hyle. Going there once was a bad idea, even if we didn’t see anyone from the store. With that kind of prize money on the line, there’s sure to be a big crowd. I’d be asking for trouble.”
“But listen, Stretch, I have a perfect plan. You can dress up as a man. Nobody would expect that you would do a thing like that, all prim and proper as you are.”
“It’s too big a risk. I must do well here. I have to get hired on after the Winterfest season.”
“You keep hoping for that, Stretch. But … oh, here come the hordes.” The doors to Lannister’s opened promptly at nine o’clock. Hyle finished folding one last scarf and then turned to leave.
But then he stopped.
“Well, would you look at who it is. The golden prince himself.”
Ambling through the great, gilt doors of Lannister’s main entrance came a tall, ridiculously good-looking man, dressed incongruously in a cashmere evening coat, open to show a tuxedo beneath. His golden hair was mussed, a beard shadow marred his diamond-sharp jaw, and dark glasses covered his eyes.
“If any of us dared to show up this late for work, we’d be out on our ears,” Brienne muttered. Resentment snaked up her spine, and her shoulders and neck muscles tightened.
It must be nice to be born with a silver spoon and not have to comply with any of the rules of Lannister and Sons.
“That’s the difference between being a wage slave and the boss’s son, Stretch.”
Brienne sneered at the scion of Lannister and Sons for a moment before schooling her expression into something more agreeable as she crossed her fingers below the counter that at least one of the customers streaming through the doors in his wake would need something from her department.
***
Jaime leaned his aching head against the cold metal of the elevator wall as the box slowly ascended to the executive floor at the top of the Lannister and Sons building. With his rampant hangover, the noisy crowd on the main floor had been a particular brand of the hells.
He shared a glance with old Davos, the elevator operator who’d been at Lannister’s for as long as Jaime could remember.
“Rough night, son?” The old man smiled at him.
Jaime tried to smile at the man who’d kept a pocketful of sweets for a little boy bored while visiting Father’s office, but the corners of his lips refused to lift. “I’m getting too old for this, Davos.”
“More than time for you to be settling down, Mr. Jaime.”
“Oh, not you, too. You sound like my father.”
“Man reaches an age where all he wants is to take it easy and dandle a few grandbabies on his knee, son. Your da ain’t so different from the rest of us.”
“How long have you worked here?”
“Near thirty-five years this Winterfest season.”
“And after all that time, you can think that my father is anything like a normal man with a normal man’s desires. You are either mad or a perpetual optimist, Davos.”
The elevator car arrived at its destination, and Davos leaned past Jaime to open the gate. “An eternal optimist, I hope, ser. Now you go and get a shave and a change of clothes before your da sees you.”
“Have a good shift, Davos. I hope all the unruly children choose Boros’s elevator.”
“Ah, the wee ones are just excited for Lord Snow.”
The elevator began its descent as Jaime wended his way to his office. He held a finger to his lips as he tiptoed past the partially open, massive wooden double doors of his father’s sanctum sanctorum. Thankfully, Tywin’s secretary liked Jaime and would not rat him out.
He was almost home free when his father’s voice called out one word in a tone as dry as the Red Waste.
“Jaime.”
How did he do that? Tywin Lannister had a supernatural sense for catching his only child in embarrassing situations.
“Yes, Dad,” Jaime answered, his shoulders drooping. This was not going to do his hangover any good.
“Come in, son,” the voice of doom ordered, “and shut the door behind you.”
Pretty, deceitful little Pia gave Jaime a sympathetic glance as she shrugged her shoulders and removed her hand from the intercom button.
“Tarly called up as soon as you entered the building,” Pia whispered. “I had to let him know.”
Bloody Tarly! The man could not get over the fact that he would never rise any higher in the company since his last name wasn’t Lannister. And he took it out on every employee except for Tywin.
Jaime ran a hand through his hair, hoping to bring it into some semblance of order, then he walked through the doors and greeted his father with all the nonchalance he could muster.
“Morning, Dad. Happy start of Winterfest week.” The sennight of the holidays were the most profitable days of the year for the store. Jaime hoped reminding his father of all the lovely coins coming his way would distract dear old dad.
No luck. Jaime’s father looked him over with a gimlet eye.
“What do you mean coming in at this hour of, looking like you haven’t even been to bed? What kind of example are you setting for our employees with this kind of behavior?”
“An example of someone who knows how to have some fun in their life?” Jaime tried out the sheepish expression and puppy dog eyes that had gotten him out of almost any trouble since he was in short pants. Unfortunately, they rarely worked on his father, particularly when his eyes were bloodshot and gritty with exhaustion.
Before Jaime could sit down, his father stretched a long bony finger at the sideboard that held his coffee urn and cups. A glass filled with a poisonous-looking concoction in a muddy rust color sat there. Jaime gulped when he saw it. Dad’s hangover remedy would either cure you or kill you, and you were never sure which you wanted while you tried to choke it down.
“Every drop, Jaime.”
Stone. How did his father make his voice sound harder than the granite of Casterly Rock? Nobody argued with Tywin Lannister when he used that tone.
“Yes, ser,” Jaime sighed. He took a deep breath as he picked up the glass and then chugged it down as quickly as he could.
For a few horrible seconds, Jaime thought his insides just might become his outsides. Dad must have doubled up on the horseradish and cayenne pepper. Jaime swallowed and swallowed against his rising gorge. Tears dripped from his eyes and onto the limp collar of his pleated tuxedo shirt. He dug into his trouser pocket, hoping against hope that he had a handkerchief. He didn’t wish to give his father the satisfaction of seeing him dry his eyes on his shirt sleeve.
“Once you have recovered, you may pour yourself a cup of coffee.” The granite left his father’s voice. Tywin always enjoyed the spectacle of delivering comeuppance.
Once Jaime was sure that his hands had stopped trembling, he filled a china cup with the rich, dark coffee Tywin preferred and settled himself in one of the guest chairs in front of his father’s desk.
Tywin had turned his attention to one of the two piles of papers that were always on his desk, one to do and one completed. A single sheet sat in the middle of the blotter and was the focus of his father’s gaze. Tywin would pay no more attention to his son until he had completed the task at hand.
Jaime sipped at his coffee and prepared his exhausted and booze-addled brain for one of his dad’s lectures on the dignity owed to the Lannister name.
After several idle moments cataloging the décor of his father’s office for the millionth time, Jaime sat to attention when Tywin cleared his throat.
“I’m ready to hear your explanation of your behavior now, Jaime.”
That was a new one. Jaime usually sat silent for at least twenty minutes before his father made Jaime try to justify whatever actions he was being called on the carpet for.
“Ummmm,” Jaime knew he looked like a deer caught in headlights. Damn Dad for wrongfooting him like this.
“I would have thought your costly education would have left you slightly more articulate, son.” His father almost cracked a smile.
“Ummmmm.” What was going on here?
“Shall I start for you? You were out all night with that pushy Castamere girl. She convinced you that drinking and dancing were more important than getting to work on time and meeting your family obligations. And …”
Tywin’s voice trailed off. Jaime rushed to fill the gap, just as his father expected.
“I don’t understand why you dislike Cersei so much, Dad. She’s exactly the type of girl you say you want for me. Heiress of a wealthy family, good Westerlands stock, the most beautiful woman anyone has seen in years. I think you’d be over the moon that we’re seeing each other. If we were to marry, it would join the two largest department stores in all of Westeros.”
“She’s a Castamere, Jaime. That family is not to be trusted, and I certainly don’t want any of them getting their grubby fingers anywhere near Lannisters! If that’s what she’s angling for, you can tell her to forget about it right now. I wonder how long she might stick around after.”
“You’ve never gotten over that takeover old man Castamere tried on Grandfather. You may let it cloud your judgment, but it won’t cloud mine. I lo … I like Cersei very much, and I will keep seeing her for as long as she’ll have me!”
“You are my son, and you will do as I say! Lannister’s will be yours one day, young man. It’s time you started paying more attention to the business and less attention to the social scene. I won’t be around forever, you know. And you are getting too old to be running around every night like some silly Tyrell. By the time I was your age, your mother and I were married, and you were already walking and talking. I’ve given you too much rope, Jaime. I have to rein you in before you hang yourself.”
“Mixed metaphors aside, Dad,” Jaime smirked at his use of his costly education there, “if you won’t let loose the reins of the store, how can I do anything but come along for the ride?”
“Your Uncle Kevan has decided to retire.” Tywin delivered this news with a hard stare straight into Jaime’s green eyes.
And Jaime heard the death knell of his carefree existence. Kevan was Tywin’s right hand, first mate to the captain of the Lannister’s ship. He dealt with everything from what was served in the employee cafeteria to when to change out the summer for the winter stock. Tywin took care of the big picture, but Kevan was the details man.
“I see you appreciate the impact of his decision. You will spend the next six months taking over Kevan’s duties. And since you made me wait this morning to tell you about this, you will start with the most unpleasant one. The temporary staff needs to be let go at the end of the week. Each of them will receive a pink slip in their pay packet. You will be the one who distributes the packets. You will listen to all the complaints and stand strong before all the tears and pleas. You will not offer permanent employment to anyone who tells you about their sick mother or children who need shoes. Do you understand?”
Jaime hated this. He was beloved by the staff. He was sure of it. He was the fun, handsome jokester who shared a quip with the stock boys and flustered the salesgirls with his smile. But nobody liked the guy who delivered the pink slips. Dropping the hammer on the seasonal staff would make Jaime the least popular man in the building (after his father) until well after the new year.
Still, Father was the boss. Father still controlled Jaime’s trust fund and would until he either married or reached his thirty-fifth name day. He had six more years until five and thirty. Since he couldn’t make himself say that he loved Cersei, even to his father, much less to her, marriage was probably a good way off as well.
As long as Dad held the purse strings, Jaime followed orders. He sent Tywin an insouciant salute, just to show that he might be down but not out, placed his coffee cup on the edge of the pristine desk out of spite, and made his way to the doors.
“Oh, there is a termination to take care of today. According to Tarly, it can’t wait until the end of the week. The girl is a walking disaster. He insists that she must be gone before the afternoon crowd of shoppers arrives, or the Accessories Department will be far below its expected sales. You will take care of that as soon as you have cleaned yourself up and dressed appropriately for the work-day.”
“Yes, my lord. All shall be as you say, my lord.” Jaime muttered under his breath as he closed the door behind him.
Pia sent him another sympathetic look as he leaned back against the wood and collected himself.
“You couldn’t have warned me?” Jaime inquired.
“I was under strict orders, Mr. Jaime. And you know your father when his orders aren’t obeyed.”
“Yes, I do.” Jaime rubbed his forehead at the return of his headache. And not because of a night of drinking, dancing, and dallying with the most beautiful woman in town. It seemed like Tywin Lannister had decided it was finally time for his heir to grow up.
“Would you have the cafeteria send me up a full breakfast, Pia, with extra bacon and fried potatoes? I’m going to need fortification to get through the day. Is my dry-cleaning in my office?” Jaime smiled as the secretary nodded her head. He wouldn’t have to resort to an off-the-rack suit and dress shirt today. “Give me twenty, no, forty minutes, then send up the poor girl Tarly had taken such a dislike to.”
“Of course, Mr. Jaime. Right away.”
***
Brienne waited anxiously outside the office door inscribed “Mr. Jaime Lannister” in gold leaf. She was surprised to receive the summons to the executive floor and even more that it was the son, not Kevan Lannister, who asked for her. Mr. Kevan, as he was called by the staff (only the big boss was called Mr. Lannister), usually gave the good news when a temporary staff member was given a permanent position. And there was no other reason for Brienne to be called up to the top of the building. All the temporary staff knew that they would be given their notice in their pay packets at the end of the week. That was the way it was always done at Lannister and Sons. And the company held to tradition as though it was their religion.
Brienne could hear the clinking of cutlery against fine porcelain and smelled a whiff of bacon in the air. She hoped her stomach wouldn’t growl during her meeting with Jaime Lannister. The free lunch in the cafeteria was the only full meal she was getting these days, and it was still hours before her break. She didn’t want to make a poor impression on one of her new bosses, especially one she felt at such a disadvantage with.
Jaime Lannister was a staple of the gossip pages and the employee rumor mill. Even from a distance several times, and obviously under the weather like this morning, he was the most handsome man she had ever seen. As much as she had resented the privileges that came with his last name, she could not deny his attractiveness.
Brienne had always had a weakness for pretty men, though they’d never reciprocated.
Please, Lord Snow, don’t let me blush and stammer in front of him. I’m not asking for anything else for Winterfest, just not looking like a fool.
Brienne heard a groan of satisfaction. Dishes rattled like a tray was being moved out of the way. She quickly turned, pretending to be engrossed with the portrait of the founder of the company. “Lann” Lannister was the clever fellow who had turned a cartload of goods from Essos into a mercantile empire.
The door opened behind her.
“Miss Tarth?”
The voice started out smooth as honey, with just a touch of masculine roughness, but had risen an octave when it finished. Brienne knew most people were startled the first time they saw her six-foot-plus, broad, muscular frame. She hoped Mr. Jaime’s surprise didn’t bode ill for this meeting.
She put on her best, closed-lip smile as she turned around. She didn’t need to add her crooked, too large teeth to the impression until it was unavoidable.
“Yes, Mr. Lannister, I’m Brienne Tarth.”
The boss’s son rocked back on his heels as he had to look up to meet her eyes. He wasn’t much shorter than she, three inches or so with her mandatory high heels on.
Brienne wondered if he’d ever had to look up to a woman.
“Please come in, Miss Tarth.” Lannister led the way into his office and waved her towards a chair in front of his desk.
Brienne’s feet sank into the plush Tyroshi carpet. The painted walls gleamed white, and wood trim and furniture glowed from polishing. Besides the usual office furniture, there was a sofa, and a sideboard with a drinks set-up and the discarded serving tray. Not plastic with the heavy, durable ceramic dishes and stainless-steel cutlery used by the staff. The tray was almost certainly rosewood, the china was boldly ringed with crimson and gold, and the silverware was etched with a stylized lion at the top of each piece.
The rich really were different. If this was the kind of service the son got, what did old Tywin insist on?
Jaime Lannister cleared his throat to claim her wandering attention. He looked a bit shamefaced, as though he had noticed her noticing all his luxuries.
“Well, Miss Tarth, you’ve been with Lannister and Sons for …” his voice trailed off as he tried to page through her admittedly large file for a temporary employee.
“I’ve been at Lannister’s for four weeks, ser.”
“And you’ve been in seven departments?”
“Yes, ser. I think I may have found my place in Accessories, ser. Though I still would like to work in Sporting Goods if possible.”
“We don’t allow Lannister’s Girls to work in Sporting Goods, Miss Tarth.”
Brienne sighed. She had hoped that the young Mr. Lannister would be broader-minded than Mr. Tarly was.
“And I’m afraid that there is no question of you changing departments, Miss Tarth.”
Oh, well, if she stayed in Accessories, maybe she’d finally learn how to fold a scarf.
Lannister looked very uncomfortable. He fidgeted with something on his desk — an envelope.
Oh no. This wasn’t an offer of permanent employment after all.
“I’m afraid that this is your last day at Lannister’s, Miss Tarth. You may gather your things and leave as soon as we are finished here. You will be paid for the entire day, but we will need you to depart the store immediately.”
Not even the free lunch. Brienne’s chin wobbled for a moment.
Lannister looked terrified at that.
If she were a different kind of woman, a dainty woman who cried delicate, crystal tears, could she have changed his mind? But she wasn’t that kind of woman. When she cried, her face got red, and her nose dripped like a faucet. She gulped and hiccoughed and wheezed. Even if it had not been dishonorable to try to manipulate him, she would never have succeeded.
“I did notice that there had been some breakage in the department this week that you were responsible for. I told payroll not to charge you for that. You should be receiving your full salary.”
Said Prince Bountiful to the peasant maid.
But Brienne had been raised to be gracious, even if her deportment lessons had never quite stuck.
“Thank you, Mr. Lannister.” Her jaw ached as she forced the words through her gritted teeth. She rose to take the envelope from his outstretched hand.
Her fingers brushed his for a moment. A tiny jolt flashed through her.
She must have shuffled her feet on the carpet.
“I realize that this is a challenging thing for you, Miss Tarth, but please accept my wishes for a happy Winterfest and prosperous New Year.
A lonely, miserable holiday awaited her now. Her head ducked, and her shoulders slumped for a moment. Then she remembered. She wasn’t a Lannister’s Girl anymore. She didn’t have to measure up to any ridiculous standards of femininity that she could never reach. She needed to find Hyle before one of the floorwalkers escorted her out of the building.
Brienne stood tall. Kings Landing would not defeat her. Lannister and Sons would not defeat her. She glared at the man-child who could roll into work stinking of whisky and cigarette smoke and face zero consequences.
Looking down her nose, she put as much venom in her voice as she could manage. “And a very happy holiday to you too, Mr. Lannister. I hope you enjoy all the unearned luxuries and delicacies that you have by the sweat of our brows!”
Performing a perfect about-face, Brienne stalked to the door. Those heavy wooden slabs made quite a crash when slammed with authority.