Hello guys. This is my first foray into fanfiction in several years and my very first attempt at either ASoIaF or Hunger Games. Let's see how it goes.
-Dire
For let the gods so speed me as I love
The name of honour more than I fear death.
― William Shakespeare, Julius Caesar
As I love the name of honour
PART 1
Brienne Tarth was never meant to be a tribute in the Hunger Games.
She had known that from a young age, when her instructors had stopped praising her talent for sword and mace and started stressing the importance of the right kind of presentation and interpersonal skills. It might be enough for a tribute from district Two to be skilled and dangerous, but she was a child of Four and district Four had a reputation to maintain. Their tributes were beautiful and charming and capable of bringing honour to their district with a smile on their face. Such as Margaery Tyrell.
Such as Renly Baratheon.
Brienne watches with an odd sense of detachment as Renly climbs the stage, his trademark grin already fixed in place. He might not be the tribute chosen to volunteer by their instructors, but he is skilled enough, charming enough and well confident in his ability to win. They will let his reaping stand.
It is odd, Brienne reflects, how clearly she is able to think even as her whole world tilts on the axis. She can feel the blood pounding in her head, her hands trembling despite her best effort to keep them still and yet she can perceive everything with a perfect clarity.
Can see the last year's victor Loras Tyrell take a step forward with words of protest on his lips, only to be stopped by his older companions.
Can see the sheen of pallor on Renly's face, even as he never stops smiling.
Can see the vaguely familiar girl with auburn hair – What was her name? When was she called? – valiantly struggling with tears as she waits for a volunteer to step forward.
Can hear the silence. Can see Margaery biting her lip and glancing between her brother and Renly.
And Brienne knows what she has to do.
/ /
Brienne keeps her eyes fixed on the window and the landscape rushing past, doing her best to ignore the conversation flowing around her.
The goodbyes had been mercifully short. His father, gruff and kind as always, but the sceptre of her dead brother stood between them stronger than ever and there was little that could be said. Margaery, who had surprised Brienne both with her visit and the tight hug she had wrapped the taller girl into ("It should have been me. I'm so sorry, but I couldn't do that to my brother."). Looking at Loras Tyrell spacing back at forth like an agitated feline, Brienne can hardly blame her.
The most surprising visit had been from her old instructor Catelyn Tully and the young girl from the reaping, whom Brienne finally recognized as Catelyn's daughter Sansa.
"Brienne," the woman's voice was all business, as calm as if they had been standing in a classroom. "You are strong, you are capable and you are the best fighter of your age. I have no doubt you will be able to do whatever is necessary, if given a good reason.
What is a good reason? Brienne wanted to ask, but she already knew the answer.
"Are you even listening, girl?" Olenna Redwyne demands, her crinkled eyes narrowed in a way that hold nothing of the kindly old grandmother she is usually presented as and everything of the infamous Queen of Thorns, who once outwitted the tributes and Gamemakers both. "Goodwin tells me you are handy with weapons, but at this rate you will be dead before the opening gong."
Their Capitol escort Roelle purses her lips. "You are wasting your time Olenna. The girl's a lost cause." Her gaze rakes over Brienne, equal parts scornful and dismissive and Brienne silently begs for the floor to swallow her, even as a part of her wants to rage against the unfairness of it all. "No one in their right mind would spare a broken penny to sponsor this one."
Olenna snorts. "They will change their mind when training scores are announced. If slicing things open with a sword is enough to get people root for some rock-for-brains Two tribute, it should be more than enough for Brienne."
Roelle gives a sniff. "It has to be a high score indeed. Sponsors are not known to be forgiving of blatant deficiencies."
"Then they are fools," Renly scoffs unexpectedly. "But it matters not. I'm sure I can get sponsors enough for both of us."
Goodwin raises an eyebrow. The victor of 39th Games is a familiar face for both tributes, for he is the one who supervises the preparation of all potential volunteers. Brienne has always been fond of the rather gruff man, but there is sharpness in his expression that she has never witnessed before. "I take it you want to be allies, then?" the victor asks, his eyes never leaving Renly's face.
Renly does not appear to be bothered. "I don't see why not," he answers with a shrug, offering Brienne a smile that is far too knowing for her comfort. "You are not going to stab me in my sleep, are you?"
Brienne swallows, trying to ignore the weight of their eyes on her: Renly's amused, Roelle's contemptuous and Loras's unfathomable ones. She does not look up, does not want to know how Goodwin would look at her.
"I won't kill you."
Brienne stood up straight and looked her instructor in the eye. "There will be a new victor for Four this year," she swore.
Catelyn smiled sadly. "I was afraid you would say that."
/ /
Like every other child in Panem, Brienne had grown up on the backdrop of the Hunger Games. She had known to be ready for both deadly battle and public scrutiny, but no warnings could have prepared her for the sheer humiliation that came with preparing for her first camera appearance. Hours after hours of being tugged back and forth, being waxed, scrubbed and talked over as if she was someone's problematic pet ("Whatever are we going to do with all those freckles?" "Dear god, did you see her teeth?") left her tired and sore in more ways than she cared to count. Never in her life had she felt so alone and vulnerable. ("Don't you dare to cry girl, your face is blotchy enough.")
By the time her stylist – a small and efficient woman called Donyse with alarmingly elaborate hairdo – had entered the room, Brienne was ready to scream. Thankfully Donyse had merely given her thoughtful look, clucked her tongue and set to work.
"Straight lines," she says matter-of-factly, draping something blue and heavy around Brienne's shoulders. "Clear colours. Nothing too fussy. You don't strike me as a fussy kind of girl." Brienne shakes her head, but Donyse wasn't waiting for an answer anyway. "Goodwin says they are going for the stoic and honourable route with you. Good. You have the gravitas for this."
Gravitas? The stylist stands back to examine her handiwork. "Stand up straight. Straighter. Good." She smiles with satisfaction. "Now take a look at yourself."
Brienne examines the stranger in the mirror dubiously. Gravitas. Heavy blue fabrics, blue eyes. Her hair miraculously not escaping from the pins holding it back from her face. It was not a figure that would ever charm the Capitol audience, but perhaps it could inspire the thoughts of dignity and honour. She nods.
/ /
"So, Brienne," Illyrio asks, his too-bright teeth flashing. "What are you most looking forward to in the arena?"
Brienne sits up straighter, forcing her shoulders backwards. "I want to bring honour to my district by giving them a victor they can be proud of."
She does not look towards Renly as she says that. By the reaction of the audience, she suspects they can see it anyway.
/ /
Her private session with Gamemakers earns her a score of ten. Not the highest score awarded in these games – she wonders what the red-haired, red-dressed girl from Two did to earn a score of eleven – but nothing to scoff over. Renly gets a nine, as does the red girl's stoic district partner, the scowling, broad-shouldered boy from Twelve and the boy from Six with sharp teeth and slightly unhinged smile. The commentators have already nicknamed him Biter.
"Better steer clear from this one," Loras mutters, no longer even bothering to hide his anxiety. Their youngest victor has grown more and more restless with each passing day, prowling their apartment and offering up strategies only to shoot them down himself.
Renly chuckles. "I would be more worried up the pair from Two. They wanted me to ally with them, but I shoot them down."
"What?" Loras expression is a study of anger and worry. "You should have agreed, at least it would have stopped them from attacking you at Cornucopia."
Renly shrugged. "We just need to take them out first. Right Brienne?"
Brienne only nods, trying to ignore the odd churning in her stomach.
/ /
"Poor Loras," Goodwin mutters. "His boy won't last three days in there, and that's only if the girl finds it in herself to fight for him."
Brienne stops in her tracks, the need for bathroom forgotten. She inches closer to the half-open door, afraid the next words will be drowned out by the sudden pounding in her head.
"You think she won't?" Olenna's voice, carefully neutral. Not arguing against the likelihood of Renly's survival.
A sigh. "She can fight, but she's not a killer, Olenna. Surely you can see that."
"My dear Goodwin." Olenna's voice is amused. "None of us were killers before we entered that place."
/ /
Brienne's world is made of fire, of shadows, of screams. At least some of those are her own, but she has no time to ponder on this. All her senses are occupied with the surprised vacant look in Renly's eyes, with the sharp black shadow falling over his still form.
Brienne runs, runs until she can no longer breathe, until her legs give out and she stumbles. Even so, she pushes herself up again, knowing her adversaries can't be too far ahead of her. Where did they go? Where did they come from? She had been keeping watch, how was that possible?
She does not see Melisandre until she's literally on top of the other girl and the two of them crash down together. There's no fear in her adversary's red eyes, only the barest flicker of movement that allows Brienne turn around and put her sword through Stannis's stomach before he can kill her. Melisandre doesn't even blink.
"Go on," she says. "The night is dark and I don't want to be alone here. Just kill me quickly."
So she does.
They seem so harmless now, laying side by side. Fire and shadow. But the flames are extinguished and the morning is fast approaching.
Did you see Goodwin? I am a killer after all.
Brienne lets out a strangled noise that is not quite a sob, but is not far from laughter either.
/ /
"Sir? Ma'am?"
The boy can't be older than twelve and the part of Brienne that is not grief-stricken and descending into shock manages to dredge up a memory of little boy from Ten stuttering his way through Illyrio's interview. The boy blanches at the sight of Brienne's bloody clothes and sword, but doesn't run.
"Ma'am?"
"What do you want`" Brienne sighs, her voice hoarse from more than smoke inhalation. Why is the boy not running?
The boy takes a deep breath and steps closer. "I know where to find water," he blurts out. "Food too. If you don't kill me. Ma'am."
Brienne closes her eyes. The truth is, she has no idea what to do any more, but there is desperation in the boy's eyes and Brienne would give anything for a mouthful of water.
"Lead the way then," she concurs. "And my name is Brienne, not ma'am."
She's rewarded by an uneasy smile. "Mine is Pod. My name, I mean."
/ /
"So what do we do next?" Hyle asks, stretching himself out on the pile of fallen leaves, looking for all the world like a farm boy taking a break in hard day's work, not a contender in a deadly competition. Brienne scowls, at the same time envious and unsettled.
"What you intend to do is no concern of mine, as long as you don't stab us while we sleep," she snaps, cringing inwardly as the words evoke a memory of Renly.
"Hard to do that, when you confiscated my dagger," Hyle points out. "You don't need to be like that. I promised I won't kill you unless we are the last ones left. If it comes down to that, I'm probably screwed anyway."
Brienne imagines putting Hyle's dagger through his heart and tries not to shudder. "What makes you think I would wait that long?" Unlike Hyle, she has made no promises.
Hyle's answering laughter is long and louder than sensible. "Oh Brienne. You are honourable."
She scowls. "I'm going to look for something to eat."
/ /
Something slams into Brienne, unexpected and heavy as a summer storm. She does not recognize the boy from Six right away, but she recognizes the teeth and the look in his eyes.
She struggles to get away, for the first time truly and utterly terrified for her own sake, but the hands pinning her down are heavy as irons and his breath is hot in her face. There is a moment of blinding agony as the sharp teeth clamp down on her cheek and no no no, surely not, who does that, this can't be real…
She's too far gone to feel more than confusion when the weight on top of her suddenly goes slack and then disappears altogether. "You still alive?"
Brienne forces her eyes open. Black hair. Broad shoulders. Scowl. District Twelve. "Is he..."
"Dead," the boy answers, looking at Brienne as if he's struggling with himself. "Look, if I had any sense at all, I'd kill you now. It's not like you're going to last long the way you are." Brienne has no argument to that one. Her cheek feels like it's on fire and there are black spots dancing in front of her eyes.
"Here's the deal," the boy continues, nudging his fallen opponent with a shoe. "This fellow was not alone. There were three others with him. If you want to come along for a slice of payback before you keel over, that's fine by me. I could use some help and you are the honourable sort who probably won't stab me in the back."
Brienne blinks slowly, trying to muster an appropriate response through the confused muddle that is her brain. "Where did they..." she bites off. Talking is too painful.
"They were moving down the hill last I saw them," the boy shrugs. "We can still catch up with them if we hurry."
Brienne's eyes widen as the fogginess of her thoughts gives ground to all too unpleasant clarity. "My friends," she manages to gasp out.
The boy gives him a look of confusion. "Your had allies there?"
"Friends," Brienne insists, struggling to her feet. "Come on." She all but falls down the hill, towards where Hyle and Pod had set up their camp.
/ /
There were two figures dangling in the tree. That's the only thing that Brienne can recall afterwards with any sense of clarity. She does not recall the scene she sees playing out on the huge screen in a different lifetime: of three figures surrounding the tree. Herself, wild-eyed and bloody as she grapples with the girl leading the small band, strangling her with her bare hands. Twelve boy – Gendry – killing one of the others, only to be himself killed by the third member of the band. She does not recall how she remembered Hyle's dagger in time to slit the last survivors throat. Does not recall staggering to the tree where her friends – friends! – had taken their last breaths. Does not recall the trumpets that declared her the victor of the 61st Hunger Games.
She is alive, however, so it must have happened.
/ /
"Well, Brienne," Illyrio says, his smile still too bright, full of awful, sharp teeth. "Last time we were sitting here, you said you wanted to give your district a victor they can be proud of. I must say, you have succeeded most admirably."
Brienne doesn't answer, only hunches herself deeper into her seat, wishing she could disappear.
Never in her life has she felt more like a failure.
TBC
