PART 3
Goodwin asks Brienne's help with training potential tributes and she is surprised to discover she doesn't hate it. She would even consider it enjoyable, if not for the ticking clocks over the young heads looking to her for instructions that could save them. Gone are the days when she was still a student and they cheeky juniors all too quick to pick up the taunts their elders used to throw at her. They listen to her now and its not long before they start to come to her for advice.
Brienne is not surprised to discover Sansa has found her way amongst the preselected candidates: it's not uncommon for those spared from arena to keep reaching for it, as if they had a debt to repay, or as if they had been cheated out of some predestined fate. It makes her uneasy, however, particularly when the younger girl comes asking her for private lessons.
She bites her lip, tempted to refuse outright, but knowing it would resolve nothing. It is not a desire to learn a few tricks with sword that is an issue here. "Does your mother know about this?"
Sansa is fourteen now, taller and more confident than when Brienne first met her and she meets her gaze steadily. "I do not wish to worry her. Look, I'm not saying I would volunteer, but it is something I need to learn. If only to deal with nightmares."
Brienne searches her friend's blue gaze for guile, finding none. She's sure Sansa is holding back from her, but the younger girl is entitled to her secrets and she understands nightmares better than most.
/ /
The 63rd Annual Hunger Games approach with depressing speed and all the victors feel it. Olenna's temper is enough to keep everyone in respectful distance. Goodwin locks himself away with potential tributes, only surfacing for quick meals and a few hours of sleep. Loras glowers at Brienne more than usual and she bites back caustic remarks about his newest Capitol lover, firmly telling herself it is not her place to judge. Everyone deals with their grief differently.
It is during this fragile period of tense expectation that the name 'Targaryen' once again reaches the collective consciousness of Four victors.
"You are absolutely sure?" Goodwin asks with a frown, already calculating how this new development would affect the chances of his protégées. More than any of them, Goodwin is a mentor to the core.
Olenna twirls an olive between her fingers before popping it into her mouth. "Varys has no reason to lie. If he's the one spreading rumours, then it's because he wants it known well before the reaping day. Drum up support for the boy before he even volunteers."
Goodwin's face twists into a sneer. District One escort's methods are no news to any of them. "Is he any good?"
Olenna shrugs. "He's a Targaryen and Mad Aerys son. He will either be magnificent or fail spectacularly."
Brienne frowns at that. "Surely District One wouldn't set a tribute up for a failure." They were far too proud to purposefully show themselves in a bad light for cheap drama.
"Not without a good reason, no," Olenna concedes. "It's possible the boy is too much for them to handle and letting him self-destruct means less hassle all around. They might hope to permanently wash their hands of the embarrassment of Aerys memory. There might be a pressure from higher up to put the boy to arena. Mad or no, his father was still a victor and his brother made it into final two. Excellent ratings are guaranteed." She grinned at Brienne's expression. "I'm afraid you have a lot to learn about how the Games work."
"So I'm starting to discover," Brienne answers, wondering what the other victors were making of this new development.
/ /
"Rather full of himself, isn't he?" Jon Snow observes as the chariots ground to a stop right below them. Victors and Gamemakers always get the best seats for these kinds of events.
Brienne has to acknowledge that Viserys Targaryen looks excellent in his chariot, greeting the crowds more like a lost prince returned to his rightful inheritance than a tribute entering a deadly competition. His stylist had foregone the usual District One solutions, preferring the dragon motives in red and black that would remind the crowds of the very first victor of the Hunger Games, Aegon Targaryen, this boy's grandfather. She wonders if the boy is truly fearless, or if the possibility of failure hasn't even occurred to him.
Samwell Tarly nods, apparently starting to get over the fact that he's standing between two proven killers. "I have never seen someone so eager to volunteer. It's like he can't wait for the Games to start." The young man gulps at the thought, his pale face glistening with sweat. A Gamemakers' assistant of all the possible career choices? Brienne doubts she will ever stop being baffled by the Capitolites.
"He's popular though," Jon observes grimly. "It will be difficult for ragtag districts to get anything from the sponsors this year." He sighs. "And here I thought Grenn had a real chance. He's strong as an ox, if not as bright. At least he's not a twelve year old"
Sam blanches at the thought and Brienne looks away. She knows by now that outer districts were lucky when they got one older tribute and she feels a hot stab of shame when she recalls her childhood scorn towards the districts who wouldn't have volunteers to protect their little ones. Reality was turning out to be rather more complicated than a sheltered child in a favoured district could have ever expected.
/ /
"So Viserys," Illyrio Mopatis is practically preening. "What would you consider your greatest advantage in the Arena?"
Viserys Targaryen twists his long pale fingers in nervous rhythm. Now that he's sitting down there is no hiding of the agitated restlessness that accompanies his every move. His pale eyes are alight with a desperate fervour of one who has suffered and lost too much on his chosen path to ever doubt the viability of going forward, let alone the righteousness of it.
"I'm a dragon." A statement of fact, but one that demands confirmation and acknowledgement all the same. "Fire cannot kill a dragon."
The crowds love it.
/ /
In the end it's not fire that kills Viserys, but it's close enough. Drogo of district Ten is no trained tribute, but he's just as creative with his kills: the pot of boiling oil turned over Viserys head is enough to briefly propel Drogo on top of the favourites' list, only for him to succumb to little Mirri of district Five. Mirri in her turn dies screaming in the fire trap Gamemakers must have designed specifically with Viserys in mind. By the time Jhaqo of Two raises his arakh in a final gesture of triumph, it's a firm opinion in Capitol that those have been the most splendid Games in a recent memory.
/ /
"I'm sorry, I didn't think anyone would be up here."
Jaime Lannister doesn't turn away from the edge of the rooftop. He's drinking straight from bottle this time, none of those ridiculously fussy-looking crystal flutes in sight. "The air's free," he shrugs, eyes fixed on the city below.
Brienne closes the door behind here, drawn closer almost despite herself. "Aren't you supposed to be on the closing ceremony?"
"Aren't you?" He shots back, taking a swig. "I bailed out. Wouldn't do to seem like I'm gloating. Terrible for our image."
Brienne shakes her head, stepping closer to the edge. From this height, the city looks like a different world. Pretty. Clean. Safe. "I'm amazed you came at all. Your sister's staying away."
"Cersei's pregnant. She has an excuse." He takes another swig and sharp smell of alcohol fills the air. Definitely not wine. "We can't both skip the Games. Capitol loves us too much."
Brienne's surprised at the bitterness in voice. She has rarely heard a victor talk openly about Capitol in such a way and never One or Two victors, who are supposed to be the most loyal. "I was under the impression you loved Capitol just as much," she answers carefully, wary of saying anything that could be interpreted as treasonous. Jaime might be drunk but that was no reason to trust him, especially on subjects where she couldn't sort out her own feelings.
Lannister gives her a look of patronising amusement she's already learning to loathe. "Capitol always gets everything backwards. They think I adore them enough to fuck Cersei for them."
Brienne doesn't answer. What words would even suffice?