Chapter Seven
When Cersei insisted that she needed time to pack up her items and relocate them to the presently empty Dowager's quarters, Brienne had not argued. There hadn't been much time to argue: now that the Iron Throne was hers, she needs must sit in it. And sit in it she did, listening to petitions and accepting oaths of fealty from those Houses with representatives already living in the city.
There had been a Small Council meeting as well, and that had left Brienne feeling completely hamstrung. It had also redoubled her determination to put the Seven Kingdoms back to rights.
Since the Queen's chambers were occupied, the steward and seneschal had ordered her belongings moved into the King's chambers. They were even more elaborate, luxurious and spacious than Cersei's rooms. Brienne immediately despised them, but she had to sleep somewhere.
She burst in through the doors leading to the innermost rooms, the private rooms, where naught but her ladies and husband might enter without permission. She tugged off the coronet that she'd worn through the day, wincing as it pulled at her hair, and tossed it onto her bed.
"Well, that's certainly not a very queenly display, Your Grace," a voice drawled from off to her left. Brienne spun and glared at her husband. He was lounging in one of the decorative chairs, nearly as golden as the brocade he was spread across. And he was smirking at her show of temper.
Always smirking. Brienne's scowl darkened. Like he's in on some jest the rest of us don't understand.
"I'm in no mood, Ser Jaime."
"If you're going to insist on titles, dear wife, shouldn't I be 'your highness?'" Jaime sat up straighter and let the smirk slide off of his face. "What is it?"
"My royal cousin beggared the realm, that's what," Brienne fumed. "To your father, but also to the Iron Bank of Braavos. I'm not sure how Petyr Baelish has been making the interest payments, let alone paying off any of the principle debt…"
Jaime's mouth twitched. "Yes, well, Robert was never going to remembered as a spend thrift."
Brienne sighed. She was no good at these matters. Battles, strategy, leadership…those were things she understood. But how to scrape together enough dragons to free the Seven Kingdoms from massive debt? The Iron Bank was not known for its leniency…perhaps Tywin Lannister could be persuaded to forgive some of that debt? But she'd barely had the thought before she disregarded it. There would be no help from Casterly Rock, at least not in that regard.
Where else could she turn? Highgarden? Her brow furrowed as she tried to think of the benefits and pitfalls of that idea, and she was so distracted that she didn't notice Jaime lift himself out of his chair and come over to her. She jumped when she realized he was so close.
"Baelish has been managing for years. He can hold them off a little longer while we find a way to pay back the money," he said.
Brienne looked into her husband's eyes and forgot about dragons and stags for a moment. She was grateful she didn't truly have to look down to meet his gaze. He wasn't as tall as she was, but it wasn't such a glaring difference. His tone was soothing. Again, she felt a strong urge to relax, to let him help her carry some of her newest burdens.
He's a kingslayer, a voice whispered. He thinks you're silly and ugly. He doesn't think you should wear the crown.
Then again, Brienne wasn't truly convinced she should be wearing it either.
"Perhaps," she allowed. He was too handsome, his nearness too distracting. She was tired of this, tired of being married to someone so beautiful, to someone that would only ever look at her with mild disgust.
She took a breath, found her voice. "Any news of Stannis?"
Jaime's lips narrowed into a grim line. "No. He's not on the Kingsroad. It doesn't really matter, we know where he's headed."
"If he calls his banners, it's an act of treason." Brienne frowned. "But we cannot blame his bannermen, they're only fulfilling their—"
"Duty." Jaime gave her an exasperated look. "Blameless or not, you'll have to order your armies against his forces."
"I will lead them." Brienne's hand curled into a fist. "I will prove to the men that I am a worthy queen. If they see that I'm willing to die for them—"
"I will lead them, Brienne." When she tried to argue, he held up a hand. "You will have plenty to see to without being on campaign. I'm the best commander you have."
"Perhaps we should consult with Renly, he knows his brother and might offer helpful insights—" Brienne knew her cheeks were an ugly, blotchy red, she could feel the flush creeping up her neck even as she spoke, and she ducked her eyes away from Jaime's. She heard him straighten up, go stiff at the suggestion.
"It's not just Stannis' rights you usurped, Brienne," he said, his voice oddly tight. "I wouldn't put too much trust in Renly if I were you."
"But…but he's still here, he still sits the Council…"
Jaime didn't answer. She could feel his eyes on her, then heard his disgusted sigh and felt the air stir around her as he spun on his heel and left. Perhaps he was right and she shouldn't trust Renly, but she couldn't stop the stupid, girlish hope that the youngest Baratheon had stayed to help her. He had been kind to her before, and never humiliated her though he must know she loved him.
She called for her ladies to help her change, her mind still spinning. Once she was clad in her familiar men's garb, she headed for a courtyard to spar. That always helped her clear her mind.
The first attempt on Brienne's life happened in the practice yard. She'd already beaten a few of the squires, knocking them into the dirt and then offering them tips on their stances or technique. An older man asked for the honor of sparring against the queen, and she didn't think to deny him. He was a stranger to her, but most of the city was still stranger to her.
She was not wearing plate or even chainmail. She'd have to return to the Council chambers soon, so she hadn't bothered with either in order to make the most of her time with a sword. She did wear a stiff leather hauberk, which was protection enough against tourney blades. Her opponent hadn't donned any heavier armor either, either out of a sense of fairness or because he'd decided she wasn't good enough to get through his guard.
So many men had to learn the hard way.
She and the stranger squared off. They circled each other for a moment. Brienne was patient, she knew he'd make the first move. He was more controlled than most, watching her move before he attacked. He also didn't attempt to beat her down with superior strength. He darted in toward her and attacked with ferocious speed.
Brienne was impressed with him: he had less pride than she'd assumed, or at least he hadn't thought that she was just a woman playing with sharp toys that didn't belong to her. Soon she was sweating, working hard to match his quick steps and quicker blade. He couldn't keep it up forever, and she was sure her stamina was up for the challenge, but he was holding out longer than most.
He was decent, his slices and jabs precise. There were no wide open, stupid sweeps or wasted movements. But he was starting to tire. His blade didn't dance quite as quickly as it had before. Brienne saw her opening and moved in close, probing his defenses for a weak spot. He jabbed at her but pulled his blade back too slowly, leaving his flank wide open for a counter attack for just a moment, but a moment was all Brienne needed. She swung her sword, aiming for a finishing blow that would take him just under the ribs—
White hot pain seared through her as his knife slipped easily—so easily—into her own unprotected left flank. A feint, she thought, already spinning away from the attack with the wicked boot-blade still stuck in her side. Blood was welling around the weapon, soaking through her hauberk and down to her breeches.
With a cry of pain and rage, she yanked the knife out of her side. It was longer than she'd expected, double-edged. Made for stabbing, not slicing, but he'd lost his grip before he could deliver a fatal blow.
Brienne didn't make that same mistake. She dropped her tourney sword as the man realized she wasn't injured enough to fall. He turned to run but she caught him, slamming her full body weight into his and taking him to the ground. She placed his own knife at his throat and called for the guards. They arrived just as she began to get dizzy.
She gave blurry commands for the man to be detained until he could be questioned and for a Maester to be brought to tend to her wounds. She thought he must have missed the most vital places inside of her or she'd be dead, but the blood was coming quickly and she knew that even non-fatal wounds could fester, could kill, without proper treatment.
"Watch him," she told the Gold Cloaks, indicating her would-be assassin. "Watch him carefully, we must discover where this plot came from."
Before she could say more, two squires approached and helped her, sliding under her arms so they could half-carry her to the Maester's chambers.
Jaime arrived in the Maester's chambers with the force of a gale, stomping in to look down at his wife on her sickbed.
"Fool," he snapped. "Thrice-blind, naïve little fool."
"Husband," she replied through tight lips. She had a cup of red wine in her hand, and her side had already been cleaned and stitched, but he could see how pale her cheeks and lips were and he'd also seen the blood in the training yard. How she hadn't passed out was a mystery to him, but then she was probably too damned stubborn to do something as womanly as faint.
"You do not practice without being armored from now on, do you understand?" he demanded.
"Are you giving commands now, my lord?" Brienne retorted, her eyes flashing dangerously.
"Someone needs must use their wits. It's not usually me but since the gods have cursed me with a wife such as you, it seems I have no choice but to be the voice of reason."
He was still so full of rage, even after he'd given the guards a dressing down that had probably blister their ears. Then he'd gone to find the prisoner and to make arrangements for the interrogation, only to find that the man had killed himself.
"How?" he'd bellowed at one of the Gold Cloaks.
"He got something in his mouth, Your Grace. He was dead a minute later, shaking and foaming. T'was horrible, he screamed and screamed but it killed him quick."
Some sort of poison, but what in the Seven hells kills so quickly? Jaime wondered. Tyrion would know, but Tyrion was miles away and getting further every day. He could ask the Grand Maester, but something made him hold his tongue. Besides, he didn't need to know what manner of poison the man had taken to know who was behind this blatant, clumsy attempt on Brienne's life.
His wife's voice dragged him back to the present. "You don't sound reasonable," she snapped.
"At least chainmail, wench, do you hear me? You never cross swords again, even blunted swords, without chainmail."
He turned to leave and heard her start to try and come after him. He turned to the guards on the door, guards he'd had to order because even now, with a dozen stitches in her side, Brienne still couldn't seem to grasp the danger she was in.
"Keep Her Grace here, she needs her rest. If she protests, give her milk of the poppy."
"But, my lord—Your Grace—she's the queen—"
"Yes, I'm aware, and if she wants to stay queen she'll heed the advice of her betters," he growled. He heard Brienne's wordless cry of protest, but he managed to leave her room without her chasing him down the corridor, so she must have at least a little common sense.
He stormed through the Red Keep until he reached the queen's quarters. He stopped at the door, sucked in a fortifying breath, and then shoved inside.
If he'd thought to catch Cersei off-guard, he'd failed. She was reclining on a velvet, feather-stuffed divan with a glass of wine in hand, and she looked up calmly as he strode in. She took his fury in stride, not even bothering to rise and greet him. She merely smiled at him, a warm smile for once, one full of self-satisfaction.
"Brother," she said. She motioned for him to sit. After the sight of Brienne, ugly and pale and wounded, Cersei was a feast for the senses. She was golden and perfumed, her body was all soft curves and unblemished skin. And yet the sight of her, so calm and confident, only fanned Jaime's temper further. She wanted to cloud his judgment, to use her beauty against him as she so often had before, but this time she'd gone too far.
"That was a poor attempt at an assassination," he said, ignoring both her greeting and the divan she'd waved him to.
Cersei's gaze sharpened on her brother's face. She snapped her fingers and her servants fled the chamber, sensing the brewing storm.
"Has something happened to your precious she-bear?" she asked, not bothering to sound innocent.
"You know what happened to her, Cersei."
"It seems to me as though someone is trying to do you a favor." Cersei finally rose, languidly, using her charms to their full advantage. "Who would want to be married to that freak? Certainly not you, brother, I know you too well. She bleats about honor and duty and meanwhile she's got shoulders like the Hound's."
"Father would be furious that you're interfering with his plans."
"Father forced you to marry a boring, ugly beast from some backwater. What do you care about his plans?"
"You won't get the crown by killing her," Jaime replied, watching as his twin spun away from him and made her way to the table to get more wine. For a second he saw her: saw that she was the most ruthless of them, Tywin's true heir, but the moment passed and she was just his sister again. Smart but jealous, beautiful but rash.
"Oh Jaime, I'm doing this for us, don't you see? With her gone, we can marry and rule the realm as we ought to," she said on a sigh, her voice a siren's song. "Brother and sister, husband and wife. The Targaryens understood, they had the right of it. We could create a golden dynasty that will last for a thousand years."
His head spun, his traitor heart cried out for it, the idea that Cersei might love him back, that they might have a family together—
But it was already turning to ashes in his mouth. Cersei didn't want him or his children, not if he came to her without the throne. She cared not for the people or their welfare, she never thought of winter: all she saw in those dreams of hers were golden heads adorned by golden crowns. If she loved him at all, it was a shallow thing.
Yet he was tempted, damn him, far more than he'd like to admit.
"I am no king, and if you kill Brienne before my coronation I will never be king. There would be no Targaryen-inspired dynasty then," he said, forcing himself to pay attention, to not get lost in pretty dreams.
Cersei's face turned cold and dark. "Why are you so upset? It's not as though you want her. I don't even think you want to be king. So what is the point of storming in here and hurling disgusting accusations at my feet?"
How quickly her sweet song changed. There was no more talk of 'doing it for us,' now there were only disgusting accusations. And yet Jaime found he couldn't answer her question, either. He chose to ignore it instead.
"Whatever else you're planning," he told her in careful, measured tones, "stop it now. Do not attempt to kill Brienne again. Even I won't be able to protect you if you kill a queen."
He turned and walked back toward the door. Cersei laughed as he reached it, a sound which sent a chill down his spine.
"This, from the Kingslayer?" Her voice was troublingly merry. "I won't need your protection, brother, but remember: this was the moment you could have had everything. And now it's gone."