NOW:
Brienne O'Tarth tugged at the tactical belt holding the majority of her gear around her waist. The flashlight on her left side jutted at an odd angle, digging into the flesh just above her hip. The strap that was supposed to secure the light to her belt was frayed beyond repair, but her new Captain had greeted her with a chaste, one-pump handshake and a careless shrug at her well-worn issued gear.
"Budget's a little tight these days," he had intoned without apology.
Thankfully, they did have to dip a little into their spending pool in order to scrounge up a uniform. There weren't too many females of her particular body structure running around the Westeros Police Department these days.
If ever, she snorted to herself.
She inhaled deeply, then took a step back from the mirror to survey her final look.
The short-sleeved button up was a little snug around her broad shoulders, and black certainly didn't help her naturally blowsy complexion, but at least it fit. The utility belt sat high on her wide waist, fastened tightly against her body in fear of one of the straps snapping against the slightest of pressure and sending all of her gear to the ground. The flashlight dug a little harder into her side as a reminder.
She winced, and tried to shift it away.
A pair of simple, black cargo pants tucked neatly into a pair of duty boots completed the uniform. The only flash of color came from the gold shield pinned over her left breast, and the nameplate bearing B. O'TARTH over her right. It was a downright intimidating, if not supremely boring, look. The damned King's Landing Division got to wear maroon.
Elitists.
She squared her shoulders, and met her blue eyes in the mirror. "Officer O'Tarth," she announced to her ruddy-faced reflection. She shifted her stance, and tried a deeper inflection in her voice. "Officer O'Tarth." She cleared her throat: "Officer O'Tarth."
"O'Tarth," a voice dripping with amusement drawled from behind her. "Not too bad, but I'd rather hear you say my name."
She hid her startle with a well-executed heel turn only to lose her composure when she came face-to-face with the most handsome man she had ever lay eyes on.
"This is the women's locker room," she ground out to cover her bout of nerves. She folded her arms across her rather flat bosom, and arched a pale brow.
The human epitome of "chiseled jawline" simply grinned wider.
"Actually," he pushed himself away from the locker he had been leaning against, "Casterly Rock is co-ed. Budget cuts and all that."
A well-rehearsed line, that.
He also, she noticed, had a lit cigarette dangling from his thin lips. And who the hell said smoking didn't look cool? They've clearly never seen this man do it.
Brienne flushed a deeper shade of red that she most assuredly knew she already was. In an effort to save face, she threw back her shoulders and motioned to the offending object hanging from his mouth with a jerk of her chin. "You can't smoke in here."
"So, stop me."
His leonine eyes squinted against the rising smoke, then visibly raked over her entire form. He plucked the cigarette from his mouth with an audible, purposely emitted pop, then smirked. "You're big," he conceded with a singular nod, "I'll grant you that. But I bet I could take you."
She could feel her wide-lipped mouth opening and closing over a thousand different retorts. He exhaled another cloud of smoke through a small huff of laughter, before digging his thumb into the corner of his eye, the cigarette dangerously close to the fringe of his sandy blond hair.
He placed the cigarette back to his mouth, took a deep pull, then ground it out against the sole of his left boot. He pocketed the butt, then gave her form one more appraising pass-over with his eyes.
"Follow me, O'Tarth."
She gave the smoke he emitted a moment to dissipate before following.
"Welcome to the Casterly Rock Division of Westeros PD."
The locker room was situated a short distance from the bullpen.
If one could call it that.
It was really just a room full of pushed together desks on their last legs. The space felt small enough as it was, but the presence of the entire CRD was crammed in what felt like every nook and cranny there was available. She met the eyes of Stannis Baratheon, their captain, and gave a curt nod.
At least there's space for a coffee bar.
Although, the gurgling noise the maker was putting out sounded less like the promise of a good cup of joe, and more like a slog of debris funneling through an engine.
Her tour guide grimaced at the offending object. "Damn it. It was Clegane's turn, wasn't it?"
"Keep my name outta your mouth," the hulking, presumably Clegane, grunted from where he was leaning against the exposed brick wall.
"Keep your paws off the coffee pot then, dog," the blond growled back. "Y'know, for someone who hates fire so much, you love to burn every last bit of coffee you ever make."
Brienne managed to stifle her audible gasp at the pointed retort. The beast of a man, Clegane, was sporting half of head of melted flesh. Obviously, it was a sore point.
Clegane snorted in reply.
Or, Brienne thought in astonishment, Obviously not.
The stubbled blond offered her a toothy grin. "That, my lady, is Sandor Clegane. Any guesses as to why he's been placed in our lovely unit?"
Brienne ventured she'd have a few, but the three chevrons that indicated Clegane's rank as Sergeant had her biting her tongue in response. Her tour guide grabbed her elbow in a warm grip, and turned her to face the rest of the crew. She wrestled her arm away, much to his amusement. He used the opportunity to motion toward a long-haired brunet, also with three chevrons adorning both sleeves.
"That craggy-faced bastard is Sergeant Bronn Blackwater. He and Clegane typically run the show while Baratheon and Tully...Well, while they-" He cut himself off, and plastered a frown on his handsome mug. "What is it exactly you two do around here?"
"Oh, here we go," a voice muttered simultaneously as a gruff one snapped, "That's enough!"
Lieutenant Brynden "Blackfish" Tully, her mind supplied. He had been there when she interviewed with Captain Baratheon. Their reunion would clearly be postponed, as the older man dragged her self-anointed guide from the room, and effectively left it up to herself to continue introductions.
"Um, I'm Brienne O'Tarth. I just transferred from the Winterfell Division."
A smooth-faced, pretty man with a mop of curly blond hair stepped forward and shook her hand eagerly. "I'm Loras Tyrell. If you ever need anything, let me know. I'd be more than happy to help." Then he winked.
Blushing, Brienne had nodded dumbly, before she was suddenly set upon by two of the creepiest men she had ever met. They were both lanky, and relatively tall, with one sporting a sparse goatee outlining a thin-lipped smirk. The other had a long, jet-black goatee that she knew was out of regulation.
"Petyr Baelish," the smirk widened around the silkily supplied words, "A pleasure." His handshake was limp and damp. Brienne resisted the urge to wipe her palm against her cargo pants.
"Hoat." There was definitely a trail of spit that followed the spat out word. He, thankfully, didn't offer his hand for a shake.
They were gone almost as quickly as they introduced themselves, although Brienne felt as though their eyes were boring into her back. She felt her left eye twitch as she fought against the urge to whip around and catch them in the act.
However, Bronn Blackwater stepped before her with a grin as smarmy as his hair was greasy. His handshake was clammy, but pleasantly calloused, and the twinkle in his squinted blue eyes seemed genuine. "Welcome to the shit show," he crowed in delight. He used their still clasped hands to maneuver her into a slight spin, putting the two creepers in her line of vision. "That thlobbering atthole, Hoat, has a first name that none of us can figure out. He's never said it once, and we can't find his file anywhere in this damned building."
"It probably starts with an 'S,'" Clegane muttered around his procured mug of coffee.
"Anyway, hundred bucks to the bastard that can figure it out. Oh, have you been introduced to our resident rookie? Podrick Payne!"
The demure young man shuffled over, and offered her a surprisingly firm handshake, before allowing himself to be manhandled into a one-armed stranglehold from Blackwater.
"We're all here for one reason or another," Blackwater confided without much hint of a whisper. "Clegane is an unsightly beast, Baelish practically lives in a brothel, Hoat's a little handsy with perps of the female persuasion, Robin Arryn is off his fuckin' head-" And the baby-faced man looked still young enough to be suckling from his mother's teat. "Tyrell is a pillow-biter, don't let him try to tell you otherwise, and Jorah Mormont fucked his former boss or whatnot, though who hasn't," he waggled his brows despite her disgusted frown, "Who else?" He snapped the fingers of his free hand, the one not attached to the arm wrapped around Podrick's neck. He gave that particular arm a shake. "What'd you do again?"
"Uh, the academy."
"Ah, that's right. Weren't very good, were ya?"
Payne grimaced in embarrassment. "Flunked out twice."
"I'm a self-proclaimed debauched skirt chaser and part-time gambler."
"And me?"
Brienne turned to watch as the beautiful blond strode across the room, and settled himself directly by her side. She felt purple from how flushed she was becoming. It wasn't often she could meet someone's gaze at their level, although he did seem to have a way of not holding hers for very long.
Interesting.
"You?" Bronn laughed heartily. "You're the worst of us all!"
The chiseled jaw clenched impossibly tighter.
"You're the fuckin' Kingslayer!"
The blond's nostrils flared a little at the nickname, but he schooled his expression well enough before fully turning to face Brienne again. He put his right hand out for a shake.
"Jaime Lannister. Your new partner."
TBC...
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