PART 2
Brienne Tarth was never meant to be a victor.
She's not sure about lot of things these days, but she's sure of that much. Victors bring honour to their district – everyone knows that. Yet her victory is nothing to be proud of. She can see that in the way his father wanders through the empty rooms of the house too big for just two of them, in the silent accusations Loras throws her way, in her nightmares every night.
There are jagged scars on her right cheek that no one quite looks at, despite the Capitol doctors' best efforts to fix it. She wonders if there are scars in her eyes that make people avoid her gaze, but she can't bring herself to check.
Capitol patched up her cheek, fixed her broken nose, erased her freckles and straightened her teeth, but Brienne finds she cannot bear the sight of mirrors any more.
If it is an honour, why do I feel so dirty?
/ /
"You will be leaving next week," Sansa states, looking up from her book.
It is not a question, but Brienne finds herself nodding all the same. She's not sure what force brings the younger girl back to her house again and again – whether it's a sense of obligation or actual desire for her company – but Brienne finds she can't turn her away. Sansa brings with her stories and songs, legends and fairytales Brienne used to love. Echoes from the world where honour meant something.
"The Victory Tour." The words feel heavy on her tongue, as if saying them out loud brings the dreaded event closer.
Sansa's eyes are all sympathy. "You needn't be so worried. You did not betray your allies. You avenged their deaths. You did everything right."
Did I? "Their families might think differently."
Sansa shakes her head. "You don't understand. You played the Games as honourably as they can be played. Everyone says so."
Brienne wants to argue, but no words seem to fit.
/ /
What doubts Brienne had about her suitability as a victor start to prove themselves true from the moment she first sets her foot on the stage in District Twelve. Roelle had prepared her speech for her, apparently not trusting her to do it herself. Looking at the prompt cards filled with words like 'worthy opponent' and 'honour to compete against' she feels as if her mouth is filled with cotton. She manages to stutter a few words about Gendry saving her life, before promptly fleeing the stage.
The journey towards the Capitol continues, but the growing familiarity of the routine offers no relief. Each district brings some new kind of horror: the broken look of Pod's father in Ten, the phantom pain of teeth sinking in her flesh as they reach Six, the silent condemnation of the crowds who look at her and see a murderer, not a victor.
"Only a few days more," Goodwin says as they skip over Four on their countdown of districts. "We will be in Capital soon enough, then its just the celebrations at home and it will all be over."
"Until the Reaping Day," Brienne answers dully. She has hardly slept for the last few nights, but refuses to take any medication.
"Until the Reaping Day," Goodwin agrees, his dark eyes sharp as he fixes them on Brienne's. "But you have already proved yourself survivor. If arena couldn't break you, what chance does a mere shadow of nightmare have?"
Brienne doesn't answer, but when she stands on the stage in Two it is with her head held high, not flinching from the crowd who mourns the two tributes she has killed.
/ /
After Two, One should have been easy enough. Yet as she stands there, she realises she can't even recall the names of their dead and the words wither and die and her throat is sealed shut.
She leaves the stage with last remnants of dignity wrapped around her like shredded skin and makes her way through One's Justice building, firmly telling herself that the sharp stinging in her throat is a result of too many speeches delivered in cold weather. She turns around yet another corner, hoping to find a side-door that would allow her to escape the building unnoticed. Instead she nearly collides with two of the most famous Hunger Games victors.
Twins, man and woman, golden-haired, green-eyed, dressed all in white. Famous victors both, she knows, even as their names escape her in the shock of the moment. The woman steadies herself on her brother's arm, scowling and muttering something about careless barbarians. The man, however, eyes her from head to toe with the kind of scrutiny that leaves Brienne resisting an urge to look for a weapon.
Eventually, the older victor's green eyes come to rest on her face, lingering for a long moment on her ravaged cheek. His lips curl in a bitter mockery of a smile.
"Well, well, well," he says softly. "Aren't you just a lucky one?"
/ /
It is nearly a dawn when Megga draws her last breath.
Brienne watches numbly as the blindingly white snowdrifts on her screen fade to black and the seal of Panem replaces the curled up body of a young girl in the last throes of hypothermia. They had known this was coming: both Olenna and Goodwin had said as much when the girl collapsed three hours ago and didn't get up. Loras had already disappeared after their boy died in the bloodbath six days ago and Brienne hasn't seen him since.
She stretches herself as much as the too-small chair allows and rubs her face, willing the bright spots to stop dancing behind her eyelids. There is nothing left for her to do, except to catch up on the missed sleep and hope her weariness is enough to keep nightmares at bay. The Games will be over soon enough: Old Bronze Yohn mutters expletives as his tribute Waymar is cut down by the fantastic blue-eyed mutants and Qhorin Halfhand has stood up at the Twelve station, his nose mere inches from the screen as he bellows advice to a boy who can't hear him. His tribute – a boy with the most ironic surname of Snow – had taken an arrow to his thigh, courtesy of his erstwhile ally Ygritte, but he's still better off than any of his remaining competition. Assuming the blue-eyed mutants don't get him first.
Brienne makes her way out of the mentoring room and through the lounge, mumbling a hasty apology to a round-faced Gamemaker trainee, who answers with a watery smile. The boy scurries away immediately, but the sympathy in his expression is enough to bring Brienne to stop. The last thing she wants right now is to go back to the training centre where she has to face the other mentors and give voice to their failure.
"You lost something, Four?" The voice, coming straight from behind her is almost enough to make Brienne jump. She manages to stop herself at the last moment and turns slowly, coming face-to-face with the last victor she wants to see at a time like this.
Jaime Lannister is sprawled on a couch with all the unconscious grace of a slumbering feline, his usual all-white wardrobe replaced with colours of crimson and dark gold. The golden prosthetic of his right hand is wrapped around an elaborate crystal flute filled with burgundy liquid of some sort: after three weeks in Capitol, Brienne knows better than to expect something as innocuous as wine. However, the green eyes observing her over the rim seem to be sharp and alert enough.
"I'm just looking for some coffee," Brienne blurts out, mentally kicking herself for not coming up with an excuse that would allow her to leave the room. Jaime merely shrugs.
"You can get some from behind the buffet, but at this time of night we have to fix our own drinks. Just as well, you can add as much liquid strength as you need."
Brienne mutters a thanks and sets to fixing a beverage she doesn't really want, all too aware of the sharp eyes fixed on her back.
Jaime Lannister. Oh she remembers him now. One of Panem's youngest victors and probably the most infamous one. He had volunteered at fifteen – nearly unheard of even in district One – and charmed the audience with boyish cockiness mixed with genuine-sounding words about honour and glory. His victory had gone down well in Capitol and he had still been riding the wave of his popularity two years later, when he shocked the whole country by taking the life of another victor from his district. Brienne shuddered. To kill in arena was one thing – they had no choice in the matter – but to kill afterwards, to kill another victor, who had already been through so much was unforgivable. The outrage that followed had been terrible, only somewhat soothed when Jaime's sister Cersei volunteered for the next Games. Eventually, the Capitol had forgotten their anger and taken both golden twins back to their embrace, but the districts were slower to forgive.
And that was not even brushing on the more recent rumours about the man's sexual escapades, especially those involving his sister and the paternity of her little golden-haired boy.
Brienne wraps both her hands around the steaming mug, the familiar smell of strong coffee unexpectedly soothing. She turns around to see that, yes, Jaime is indeed watching her, his glass untouched and one eyebrow cocked in amusement. Probably wondering why she didn't boost her drink with anything stronger than sugar.
"Why don't you sit for a moment," Jaime gestures. "It's quiet down here, with Game's being almost over."
Brienne grits her teeth. The mug is growing too hot in her grip, so she's forced to sit despite her better judgement, so she could set it on the table. "Shouldn't you be on your station?" She's fairly sure One boy is still in the running.
Jaime waves his hand dismissively. "Cersei figured Lancel's not going to last until the morning. Not much I can do for him at this point, even if I hadn't lost a track of what's going on. Has the Twelve boy switched allegiances again?"
His mocking tone sets Brienne's teeth on edge. "He does what he has to do."
"Don't we all?" Jaime reaches under the table, using his good hand to dig out another glass. "How about some wine?" He smirks, catching Brienne's surprised expression. "It really is just wine, I swear."
"Why?" Brienne asks, herself not quite sure what her question is about. Why wine? Why me? Why you? If you don't care about your tribute, why are you sitting here alone at crack of dawn? Why are you offering me a drink, as if we were friends?
Jaime shrugs, filling the flute in one smooth movement: even left-handed, he wouldn't be out of place at a fancy Capitol dinner party. "Why not? You just lost your tribute, it has been tough games all around and you look like you could use a drink." He pushes the drink over the table. "Victors stick together you know."
Brienne's hand reaches for the glass almost reflexively, but the sheer hypocrisy of the last words is enough to give her a pause. "This, coming from you of all people," she scoffs, incredulous.
The look Jaime gives her is all irritation, but there's something deeper than annoyance in his eyesthat Brienne cannot name. "Seriously now? I knew you had a stick up your ass the moment you took the stage in self-righteous indignation, but you couldn't get fifteen minutes into conversation before bringing up poor Aerys Targaryen?" He scowls. "Face it, Four. We are both killers here. You have no business claiming moral high ground."
Brienne bristles, sensing how the sharp words hit the chinks in her armour she's not yet prepared to acknowledge. "My name is Brienne, not Four. And it is possible even for a killer to have a shred of honour.
The golden eyebrows shoot up. For all the mockery, there is something like pity in Jaime's expression as he regards her.
"You really believe that, don't you?" His voice is soft, contemplative. "My, my. Next you are going to be all outraged by me screwing my sister."
Brienne gets up and walks away.
Somewhere behind her, the trumpets declare Jon Snow a winner of the 62nd Hunger Games.