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Chapter Text

The bells of King’s Landing tolled in the distance, muffled through the high glass windows of Lannister & Goldleaf Publishing. Inside the towering offices, Brienne Tarth already felt as though she had fought a battle before the day had even begun.

Her long legs carried her briskly down the corridor, one arm stacked with galleys, proofs, and correspondence, the other clutching a phone pressed to her ear.

“Yes, Lady Mormont, your son’s poetry will be on the spring list. Yes, the editor-in-chief himself has approved it. Yes, of course, the cover font will be dignified.” She sidestepped a cart stacked high with manuscripts and nearly collided with an intern. “Watch it!” she hissed, more reflex than anger.

Whispers flitted across the office like nervous sparrows. “The Kingslayer is here,” someone muttered, and Brienne ignored them. Jaime Lannister—the golden-haired, impossibly handsome, and terrifyingly precise editor-in-chief—was already a legend among the staff. He could shred a manuscript and an author’s ego with a single sardonic glance.

He was also unforgettable for the golden prosthetic that gleamed where his right hand should have been. A masterfully crafted piece of vanity, it caught the light like a king’s crown, as if daring anyone to mention weakness. In truth, the hand was both a weapon and a shield: he wielded it like an extension of his power, yet the hush that fell whenever it flashed reminded everyone that even the lion had once been wounded.

Brienne had spent three years surviving his impossible standards. Her mornings were a gauntlet: sorting manuscripts, fielding calls from entitled noble authors, preparing Jaime’s schedule, and enduring his constant stream of demands that arrived as smoothly as if he had planned them in advance.

“Where’s my coffee?” came the clipped voice as Jaime swept through the glass doors, green eyes scanning the office like a general inspecting his troops. His suit was cut to perfection, his golden hair gleaming under the overhead lights, posture flawless—every inch a king. He didn’t glance at anyone else — only extended his left hand, waiting for the cup he knew would be there.

Brienne slid the steaming mug into his waiting hand without a tremor. He took it with a faint nod, golden prosthetic catching the light. Around them, the office seemed to inhale and hold its breath.

The office hummed in his wake. Some cursed under their breath, others sighed in admiration. A junior editor leaned close to another, whispering, “He made Reynard rewrite an entire novel last week. Entire novel. And the poor man did it.”

Brienne ignored them. She had no time for gossip. She was already answering another call, already shuffling proofs into Jaime’s waiting briefcase, already planning how to talk him out of eviscerating an author in today’s meeting.

When Jaime disappeared into his office, she exhaled—once, carefully, before diving back into the fray.

_______________

The conference room smelled faintly of stale coffee and ambition. Editors straightened as Jaime strode in, coffee in hand, briefcase tucked under his arm like a shield. Brienne followed, notepad ready, her tall frame a subtle reminder of authority in the room—a silent contrast to the nervous junior editors.

“Let’s make this quick,” Jaime said, sliding into his chair at the head of the table. “I have an author threatening to defect to Greyjoy Press if I don’t stroke his ego before luncheon.” His green eyes flicked over the manuscript lying in front of him, a romance novel stacked thick with pink pages of editorial notes. “Whose disaster is this?”

A young editor, cheeks blotchy with nerves, raised her hand. “Mine, boss—sir. I thought it could—”

“You thought wrong,” Jaime cut in smoothly, his tone honey over steel. “This is the sort of drivel that makes me want to burn the presses and retire to Casterly Rock. Plot holes wider than the Blackwater, dialogue stiffer than a corpse. Do you want our imprint to become a laughingstock?” He closed the manuscript with a soft thud that carried finality. “Honestly, if I wanted lifeless lines like these, I’d reread a Greyjoy press release.“You’re done here.”

Gasps echoed down the table. The editor’s face crumpled. Brienne felt the sting of secondhand humiliation but kept her expression impassive. Jaime’s edicts were swift, public, and final.

“Next,” he said, already moving on.

The meeting rolled forward, Jaime skewering proposals with surgical precision. Brienne scribbled notes, chimed in only to redirect his wrath before it landed too hard. She suggested slight adjustments, smoothed over his harshest words, and quietly shifted a few assignments so no one drowned completely. It was a dance they had perfected: he cut, she sutured.

And when the meeting ended, the staff looked like they’d survived a skirmish. Brienne gathered the scattered manuscripts and trailed Jaime back toward his office. Her phone buzzed.

Margaery: How many today?
Brienne rolled her eyes and typed quickly under the table as Jaime barked into another call.

Brienne: One. A clean kill. No survivors.
Margaery: Seven Hells, remind me never to bring him flowers.
Brienne: He’d critique the stems.
Margaery: And you’d make excuses for him. Goddess, Brienne, you’re wasted on him.

Brienne’s lips twitched, just enough of a smile to draw a suspicious glance from Jaime. She schooled her features instantly, tucking her phone away. He was already waving for her to follow him back inside, as if the world owed him every second of her attention.

_______________

Jaime’s office door clicked shut behind him, his voice already rising on yet another call—something about foreign rights and a threat from Martell House Publishing. Brienne lingered just outside for a beat, clutching the manuscripts like a shield, before slipping into her own cubicle.

The open floor hummed with the aftermath of battle. Junior editors whispered in clusters, eyes darting toward Jaime’s door like villagers checking for smoke from a dragon’s cave. Brienne dropped the stack of papers on her desk, sat heavily, and exhaled for what felt like the first time all day.

Her inbox was overflowing. The phone light blinked red. Her lunch—half a sandwich from the canteen—sat untouched, the bread curling at the edges. Brienne rubbed her temples, then opened her desk drawer, reaching for the tea she kept stashed away.

Instead, her fingers brushed against the thick, familiar weight of a different stack of pages. She froze. For a moment, she just let her hand rest on it—her manuscript, the one she had worked on in the stolen hours of too-early mornings and too-late nights.

A story no one knew about.

She slid the pages out, just far enough to see the title printed across the top page in her careful hand: “The Maiden’s Oath.”

Her breath caught. The letters looked absurdly fragile here, under the fluorescent lights of Lannister & Goldleaf Publishing, a place where Jaime Lannister’s cutting remarks could eviscerate a lifetime of work in seconds. Still, her chest tightened with something that wasn’t just fear.

Hope.

Brienne traced a fingertip over the edge of the paper, imagining the feel of it bound, the cover embossed, her name—Brienne Tarth—on the spine. Then she shoved it back into the drawer quickly, as though Jaime himself might appear behind her and sneer.

Her phone buzzed again. A new message from Margaery.

Margaery: Dinner tonight? You need wine after surviving the Kingslayer.
Brienne let herself smile this time, small and fleeting.

Brienne: Fine. But you’re buying.

A chuckle slipped from her before she could stop it, soft enough that no one noticed. Then, straightening the manuscripts into a neat pile, she braced herself for the next demand from the lion’s den — never suspecting that the next roar would shake the lion’s throne itself.

Chapter Text

The streets of King’s Landing pulsed with morning bustle as Brienne wove her way toward The Stag & Cup, the coffee shop around the corner from Lannister & Goldleaf. The city smelled of smoke, salt, and ambition—a fitting perfume for someone about to survive another day in Jaime Lannister’s office. She clutched her bag close, mentally reciting the list of tasks already waiting for her: Jaime’s calls, Jaime’s proofs, Jaime’s impossible expectations.
“And, gods forbid, a smile,” she muttered under her breath, because Jaime had a way of making even her silence seem like a personal affront.

The bell chimed as she stepped inside, and the familiar scent of roasted beans wrapped around her like a soft shield against the day’s onslaught.

“Morning, Brienne!” boomed Tormund Giantsbane from behind the counter. His wild red beard was as untamed as his grin. He leaned forward on his elbows, blue eyes gleaming. “Your usual? Strong enough to wake the dead?”

“Yes, please,” Brienne said, cheeks heating. The man always treated her like a prize—or a curiosity.

Tormund scribbled her order onto the cup, and when he passed it across, his hand lingered just long enough to slide a phone number beneath her fingers. “Call me sometime. We could share more than coffee, eh?”
The slip of paper burned hotter than the coffee in her hand. Tormund’s boldness left her tongue-tied, and she could already imagine Margaery’s laughter if she ever found out.

Brienne’s face flamed scarlet. She mumbled something that might have been thank you and nearly tripped over her own boots in her rush to escape. Her mind raced, imagining Jaime’s sharp eyes dissecting every detail of her morning before she even reached the office.

Her head was down, thoughts scattered, the number crumpled in her palm—so of course the universe decided that was the perfect moment to trip her up.

The collision was spectacular.

Hot coffee splashed across her blouse in a dark, spreading stain. Brienne gasped, jerking back, while the other man — tall, dark-haired, dressed in a sharp navy suit — blinked down at the mess.

“Gods, Brienne, I’m so sorry!” Renly Baratheon reached instinctively for his pocket square, then realized it was hopeless. “Seven hells, I’ve ruined you.”

“You haven’t,” Brienne said quickly, though her shirt clung damply to her. “I—”

“No, no, this is on me.” Renly glanced around, then shrugged out of his suit jacket in one smooth motion. “Here. Take this. Unless you’d prefer to walk into the office wearing a direwolf-sized stain? Though I’ll admit,” he added with a grin, “you wear chaos better than most.”

Brienne sputtered. “I can’t possibly—”

“Brienne,” Renly said firmly, draping the jacket around her shoulders before she could protest further. “You’d do the same for me. And besides”—his mouth curved in a teasing smile—“it looks better on you.”

She tugged it tighter around herself, flustered, as warmth from the fabric threatened to erase Jaime’s green-eyed scowl from her mind.

Brienne stood there for a moment, staring after him, cheeks burning. Then her phone buzzed.

Margaery: On your way in yet? Kingslayer’s pacing like a caged lion.
Brienne: Spilled coffee. Disaster. Borrowed Renly’s jacket.
Margaery: Tell me you at least look good in it. Renly’s jackets have better tailoring than most men’s personalities.
Margaery: Oh gods. He’s going to notice. Can’t wait.

Brienne groaned, shoving her phone back into her pocket as she hurried up the steps to the towering office of Lannister & Goldleaf Publishing. Renly’s jacket smelled faintly of cedar and ink. She tried not to dwell on the warmth—or the memory of his teasing smile—because Jaime Lannister waited, every scathing glance sharpened by the morning sun.

Because if Jaime Lannister noticed—and of course he would—this day could only get worse.

_______________

The glass doors of Lannister & Goldleaf Publishing swung shut behind Brienne just as Jaime strode out of his office. His green eyes flicked over her immediately—head to toe, sharp as a Valyrian Steel blade drawn in one smooth motion.

“Renly’s jacket?” he asked, voice deceptively mild.

Brienne froze mid-step. “It’s… temporary.”

Jaime’s mouth curved, the faintest curl of mockery. “How gallant of Lorddddd Baratheon. I suppose the coffee stains were worth it, then?” His gaze dropped to her hand as she fumbled with the stack of proofs, the slip of paper Tormund had scrawled his number on sliding free. Jaime plucked it up before she could react.

“Ah.” He twirled it between two fingers, reading aloud: “‘Call me, big woman.’ Charming.” His smirk deepened as he tucked the slip into her stack of papers. “You’re quite the prize this morning, aren’t you? Collecting suitors and jackets before you’ve even made it to your desk.”

“At least they don’t come with impossible deadlines and impossible egos,” Brienne muttered, too low for anyone but him to hear.
Brienne’s ears burned crimson. “It’s none of your concern, Boss.”

“On the contrary,” Jaime said, stepping closer, lowering his voice so only she could hear. “Everything that happens in this office is my concern. Including who thinks they can distract my assistant with cheap flirtations and terrible handwriting.”

Before Brienne could muster a retort, the elevator chimed. A pair of interns darted out. “Boss Jaime,” one squeaked, “your father requests your presence. Immediately. Upstairs.”

The smirk vanished from Jaime’s face. He handed Brienne the proofs and straightened his cuffs. “Of course he does.”

The top floor of Lannister & Goldleaf was a world apart—polished wood, oil paintings of family ancestors, the air heavy with money and power. Tywin Lannister’s office was vast and severe, sunlight spilling across shelves lined with leather-bound tomes.

Tywin sat behind the desk, quill in hand though he hardly needed it; the weight of his gaze alone could draft decrees. Tyrion lounged nearby in a leather chair, glass of wine already in hand, his expression too amused for the tension in the room.

Jaime entered, the golden prosthetic gleaming like a trophy, a reminder of both his pride and past wounds. “Father. Brother.”

“Sit,” Tywin said. It wasn’t a request.

Jaime did.

Tywin folded his hands. “Your visa has expired.”

For the first time that morning, Jaime blinked. “My—what?”

“Your visa.” Tywin’s tone was clipped, each syllable precise as a scalpel. “The Martells have lodged a complaint regarding the legitimacy of your work permits. Immigration officials were… most interested.” He slid a folder across the desk. “You will be deported. Soon.”

Tyrion raised his cup in mock sympathy. “Back to Casterly Rock with you. Imagine—Jaime Lannister, lion of the publishing world, reduced to provincial vineyards and Father’s hounds.”

Jaime’s jaw tightened. “That’s absurd. I’ve run this house’s flagship press for years.”

“And yet,” Tywin said, cold as winter in the North, “you will not run it much longer. I cannot have instability at the helm. Effective immediately, I intend to name a new editor-in-chief.”

The name that followed landed like a blade.

“Baelish.”

Jaime shot to his feet. “Petyr Baelish? That snake will bleed this place dry!”

“Petyr is efficient. He is ambitious. And—most importantly—he is legal.”

“Efficient at pocketing coin, ambitious enough to bed half the board, and legal only because he hasn’t been caught,” Tyrion drawled. “Truly, Father, a sterling recommendation.”

Jaime’s pulse roared in his ears. He could already see Baelish gutting every imprint Jaime had built, filling lists with cheap thrillers and scandal rags. No. He wouldn’t allow it.

His throat felt like it was closing, the walls of Tywin’s office pressing in. Baelish’s smirk was already ghosting in his mind, leeching color from the press Jaime had built. He’d burn the place before letting Littlefinger have it. And then the words slipped free.

“I’m not leaving. I’m—engaged.”

The room stilled.

Tywin’s brows lifted, just slightly. Tyrion nearly choked on his wine. “Engaged? To whom, dear brother? The golden-haired courtesan from Lys you entertained last spring?”

Jaime forced his smirk back into place, though his palms were damp. “To Brienne. Brienne Tarth. My assistant.”

The silence that followed was thunderous.

_______________

The silence in Tywin’s office stretched like a noose. Even the clock on the far wall seemed to hold its breath.

Tyrion recovered first, coughing into his goblet. “Oh, this is delightful. You mean to tell me the fair Lady Brienne has consented to marry you? Forgive me if I request documentation. Preferably notarized. And witnessed.”

Tywin’s expression didn’t change, though his eyes flickered in a way that made Jaime’s skin crawl. Calculating. Always calculating. “Brienne Tarth,” he said at last, voice low and clipped. “Selwyn Tarth’s daughter.”

Jaime seized on that like a drowning man spotting driftwood. “Yes. Exactly so.”

Tyrion swirled his wine. “And not, say, a desperate fabrication to stave off deportation and Father’s wrath? Because if it were, Jaime, it would be the single most reckless bluff of your storied career.”

Jaime ignored him. He had to. If he faltered, Tywin would gut him alive and replace him with Baelish before the hour was out.

“Very well,” Tywin said finally, folding his hands on the desk. “If you are truly engaged, then this solves the problem. Marriage confers permanence. Protection. Stability. We shall, of course, require evidence.”

“Evidence?” Jaime repeated, suddenly aware of the sweat prickling at the back of his neck.

“A wedding date. Invitations. A ring.” Tywin’s gaze pinned him like a spear through a stag. “If this is genuine, prove it. If it is not, you will regret the insult to this house.”

Jaime swallowed hard but forced a smile. “You’ll have all the proof you need, Father.”

_______________

The elevator ride down was suffocating. By the time the doors slid open, Jaime was already scanning the office for her. He spotted the blonde head bent over manuscripts at her desk, Renly’s jacket still draped over her shoulders, and strode straight for her like a man possessed.

Brienne looked up just as he planted both palms on her desk. “My office. Now.”

She blinked. “What—?”

“Now.”

Her stomach lurched. The interns nearby ducked their heads, pretending not to listen, though the gossip would be halfway around the building before the hour was out. Brienne rose stiffly, clutching the proofs, and followed him into his office.

The door shut with a decisive click.

“What did you do this time?” she demanded, exasperation bubbling past her nerves.

Jaime rounded on her, golden hair catching the light like a halo forged of fire. “Congratulations, Tarth. You’re engaged.”

She stared. “I—what?”

“To me.” His smirk was brittle around the edges. “Announced it to my father not five minutes ago. Saved the company from Baelish’s greasy little claws.”

Brienne’s jaw dropped. “Are you out of your mind?!”

“Quite possibly,” he admitted, pacing behind his desk. “But if I hadn’t, Baelish would be gutting your paycheck by week’s end. So you’re welcome.”

She gaped at him, fury flooding her cheeks. “You dragged me into this—this circus—without even asking? Do you have any idea what people will say?”

“Oh, I can imagine.” Jaime stopped pacing, leaning on the edge of the desk, too close, too casual. “The gossip will be delicious. The ice queen assistant and her tyrant boss. Tragic, scandalous, irresistible.”

Brienne clenched her fists. “You are insufferable.”

“Perhaps. But unless you’d like to see me deported and Baelish ruling your world, you’ll play along.” His gaze sharpened. “Or shall I tell Father the truth and let him dismantle everything you’ve worked for here?”

Her breath caught. That was the knife twist. Because he was right: Baelish would toss her aside the moment he took power. All the hours, the sacrifices, the hope of maybe, maybe climbing high enough to have her own imprint one day—it would vanish.

Brienne pressed her lips together until they ached. “You’re blackmailing me.”

Jaime’s mouth curved. “I prefer the term… mutually beneficial arrangement.”

“You’re vile.”

“And you’re indispensable. Which is why this will work.” He straightened, slipping back into his easy arrogance. “Smile for the office. We’ll discuss the terms later.”

“If you ever try to kiss me, I’ll break your nose. And I won’t even apologize.”

“Rules.” He arched a brow. “Darling, you’ll be lucky if I remember not to kiss you in front of my father before we’re ready.”

Her heart stuttered despite herself, and she hated him for it.

Brienne shoved past him, muttering, “Seven hells take you,” as she stormed out.

But the ring of his laughter followed her into the hallways of the office, already igniting whispers like wildfire—and deep inside, Brienne knew the real storm was only just beginning.

Chapter Text

The office was already humming with speculation by the time Brienne emerged from Jaime’s office. Eyes followed her like hunting hawks, whispers fluttering from desk to desk like email chains spreading scandal.

Engaged?
To him?
Seven hells, she must have lost a bet.

Brienne tried to ignore it, striding stiffly back toward her desk, but Margaery was already leaning against the edge of it, arms folded, smile bright and merciless.

“Well,” Margaery purred, “that explains the jacket.”

Brienne froze. “What jacket?”

“The one currently draped over your shoulders, courtesy of Renly Baratheon.” Margaery’s eyes sparkled. “Jaime notices, storms you into his office, and emerges five minutes later claiming you’re his betrothed. Brienne, darling, if this is how you collect men, you’ve been holding out on me.”

“Margaery,” Brienne hissed, cheeks blazing. “It’s not—”

“Not what?” Renly himself appeared at the end of the row, eyebrows arched, grin wicked. “Not true? Because I’d wager half the office heard him. Congratulations, my lady.” He gave a mock bow, sending a ripple of laughter through the nearby interns.

Brienne wanted the floor to open up and swallow her whole. “It’s not—” she tried again, but Renly was already turning to Margaery.

“Tell me, do we get invitations, or do we just show up and hope for wine?”

“Oh, there will be wine,” Margaery said smoothly, “but the real entertainment will be watching Brienne try to survive the bachelorette party.”

Renly snorted. “Gods, can you imagine? Jaime Lannister, parading her through karaoke bars like a trophy? The bards wouldn’t dare write that ballad.”

“A pop song couldn’t capture that tragedy,” muttered someone from the interns’ corner, earning muffled laughter.

“Enough,” Brienne said sharply, but it only drew more attention. The office was buzzing now, people ducking their heads over manuscripts while sneaking glances at her, at Renly’s jacket, at the office door Jaime had disappeared behind.

Margaery’s expression softened just a fraction. She leaned closer, lowering her voice so only Brienne could hear. “Are you all right?”

“No,” Brienne muttered, tugging the jacket tighter. “I’ve lost my mind.”

Margaery’s lips curved. “Or perhaps you’re about to find it. Stranger things have happened in this city.”

Before Brienne could respond, Renly gave a mock salute and sauntered off, still chuckling. The whispers followed him, and Brienne dropped heavily into her chair, wishing she could vanish into the stack of proofs on her desk.

Her phone buzzed almost instantly.

Tormund: Heard the news. Should I fight him for you?
Then another: Tyrion: Do tell me this isn’t true. Or if it is, at least let me plan the wedding feast.

Brienne groaned aloud, slamming the phone face-down. Somewhere down the hall, Jaime’s laughter echoed again, golden and infuriating.

_______________

The summons came before Brienne could catch her breath. Jaime’s assistant poked her head into the office, eyes wide.
“Mr. Lannister, Ms. Tarth—Mr. Frey, from immigration wants you. Now.”

The office went still. A ripple of whispers followed them down the corridor as Jaime strolled ahead, utterly unbothered, and Brienne trailed behind like a prisoner being marched to the block.

Walder Frey’s office was cramped, overheated, and stinking faintly of sour wine. Piles of parchment cluttered every surface, immigration seals half-stamped, quills bleeding ink across the chaos. Walder himself sat behind the desk, beady eyes glittering, his grin more leer than smile.

“So.” He steepled his fingers, gaze darting between them. “The Golden Lion. The Maid of Tarth. Engaged, are we?” His voice dripped disbelief. “What a love story.”

Jaime smirked, perfectly at ease. “Some things are too romantic even for you to spoil, Frey.”

Brienne stiffened. She could practically feel the skepticism rolling off the man.

Walder leaned forward. “You expect me to believe this? You—” he jabbed a finger at Jaime “—the notorious lion with a different conquest every fortnight—and you—” his gaze raked over Brienne, cold, stubborn “—the dutiful shadow who wouldn’t know romance if it bit her.”

Heat flared in Brienne’s cheeks, shame and fury mingling. Jaime, damn him, only chuckled.

Walder sniffed. “Looks like fraud to me. And fraud means imprisonment. At best.”

The words hit like a blade. Brienne’s stomach dropped. Imprisonment. Chains. Her whole career—her book, her life—obliterated before it had a chance to begin.

She opened her mouth, but Jaime cut smoothly in. “We’re two people who were never supposed to fall in love. And yet—” he glanced at her, something sharp and unreadable in his green eyes “—we did.”

The cadence was almost theatrical, like a Lannister PR line polished for a gala speech. Brienne nearly rolled her eyes—until the heat in his gaze made her chest tighten.

Walder snorted. “How touching. You’ll forgive me if I don’t weep into my inkpot. I’ll set the interview for Monday morning. You’ll sit across from me and prove this farce isn’t what it looks like.”

Her heart thundered. An interview. A test. She could barely stand beside his Boss for five minutes without wanting to throttle him—how in the Seven Hells would she convince anyone they were lovers?

As they left, Brienne muttered under her breath, “This is madness.”

Jaime’s smile widened. “Madness is often mistaken for brilliance.”

She rounded on him the moment they were alone in the corridor. “ Did you hear what he just said there? Imprisonment, Jaime... imprisonment. And if you expect me to play along, you’re going to have to ask me properly.”

He blinked, genuinely surprised. “Ask you what?”

“To marry you,” she snapped. Her voice was low but fierce, echoing in the stone hall. “On your knees.”

For the first time all day, Jaime looked rattled. “You want me to kneel? Here?”

“Now,” she insisted, crossing her arms. “If you want this charade, you’ll ask me like you mean it.”

“Tarth,” he drawled, glancing up and down the hall, “this is a public corridor. Someone could walk by and—”

“On. Your. Knees.”

He sighed as though the Seven themselves had conspired against him. Then, with theatrical flair, Jaime Lannister—the Lion of the Rock, terror of interns, darling of the press—actually lowered himself onto one knee. The gesture was absurd, infuriating, and far too smooth.

“Seven save me,” Jaime muttered under his breath, “I’m about to be the first man to propose under threat of bodily harm.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Louder.”

His lips twitched—gods, he was enjoying this. Then, straightening his spine as though he were about to address a press conference, Jaime lifted his chin and spoke with mock solemnity:

“Brienne Tarth, will you do me the indescribable honor of becoming my wife, thereby saving me from scandal, prison, and, worst of all, boredom?”

“And possibly a beating from you,” he added quickly, dodging her glare. “Yes, yes, I’d very much like to avoid that as well.”

Her jaw tightened. “Fine. But under one condition.”

His eyes narrowed. “Name it.”

“My book,” she said. The word lodged in her throat, but she forced it out. “It gets published. Properly. No cutting corners. No shoving it onto some forgotten imprint. If I do this for you, my manuscript lives.”

For the first time, Jaime’s smirk faltered. Something flickered in his gaze—surprise, maybe even respect. Then the mask slid back into place.

“Done,” he said smoothly, rising to his feet. “But you drive a harder bargain than half the CEOs and editors I’ve outfoxed.”

“You call this a bargain?” Brienne muttered. “You’ve blackmailed me into marriage.”

“Semantics,” Jaime replied with a lazy shrug. “Besides, you’ll thank me someday when the minstrels compose The Ballad of the Editor in Chief and His Assistant.”

Brienne’s fists clenched. A CEO and editors might scheme for mergers or millions; she had wagered everything on a book of words. And somehow, she wasn’t sure who had just been outplayed.

_______________

The hallway outside Frey’s office was mercifully empty, but Brienne’s nerves were still thrumming. She wrapped her arms around herself, as if she could shield her ribcage from the storm she’d just stepped into.

“I can’t believe I let you rope me into this,” she muttered.

Jaime strolled beside her, maddeningly unruffled, hands in his pockets as though they’d just finished discussing page layouts. “You make it sound like a death sentence. It’s marriage, Tarth, not the Black Cells.”

Her glare could have split stone. “For me, it might as well be.”

They reached the stairwell, and Brienne stopped abruptly, her decision crashing into her chest all at once. “This weekend—I won’t be here. I’m leaving for Tarth. My uncle’s sixtieth birthday. It’s been planned for months.”

Jaime’s stride halted. He tilted his head, studying her like she’d just grown a second head. “You’re what?”

“Going home,” she said firmly, clutching her satchel strap like it was armor. “My family will be expecting me. I haven’t seen them in over a year. I’m not about to let you derail that, not even for—” she waved vaguely between them “—this madness.”

A slow, wicked smile curved Jaime’s mouth. “Perfect.”

Brienne blinked. “Perfect?”

“Of course,” he said smoothly. “What better way to prove our undying devotion than for me to meet the family? Spend a lovely weekend on Tarth, surrounded by doting relatives, toasting our engagement. Frey will eat it up.”

Her stomach dropped straight through the floor. “No. Absolutely not. You are not—”

“I am,” Jaime interrupted, already pulling his phone from his pocket, thumbing a message as if it were decided. “In fact, I’ll book the ferry today. Does your uncle prefer Arbor Gold or Dornish Red? I should bring a gift.”

“Jaime... I mean, Boss,” Brienne said, voice low and strangled, “you cannot just invite yourself.”

“Can’t I?” His grin widened, infuriating. “We’re engaged, after all. What kind of fiancé would I be if I didn’t seize the opportunity to charm your kin? Besides—” his eyes gleamed as he leaned closer, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial murmur “—it will look very convincing when Walder comes sniffing on Monday.”

Brienne’s pulse hammered in her ears. She could already imagine it: Selwyn’s bewildered face, her uncles’ smirks, the entire island gossiping before she even stepped off the ferry. And Jaime—Jaime of all people—strutting through her childhood home as if he belonged there.

She shook her head vehemently. “This is a terrible idea.”

“It’s the only idea,” Jaime countered, voice silk over steel. “You wanted your book published. You wanted your freedom. This is the cost, Tarth. We’re in this together now.”

Her throat worked, words sticking. The thought of him in Tarth—her Tarth—felt like handing wildfire to a dragon. And yet she saw no way out.

“Fine,” she ground out at last.

“Excellent.” Jaime slid his phone back into his pocket, satisfaction radiating from him like sunlight. “Pack something flattering. I imagine the sea air calls for dresses.”

Brienne nearly throttled him right there. Dresses. On Tarth, where her aunts still whispered that she’d never find a suitor, where cousins had once jeered as she towered above them in borrowed gowns. Gods save her.

But instead, she squared her shoulders, forcing calm into her voice. “If you embarrass me in front of my family, Lannister, no amount of Arbor Gold will save you.”

Jaime only laughed, golden and infuriating, as though she’d just promised him the grandest adventure of his life.

Chapter Text

The ferry cut across the bay like a blade, its wake churning sapphire water into froth. Brienne stood at the railing, arms crossed tight, the familiar salt air filling her lungs. Evenfall Keep rose in the distance, its pale towers gleaming against the sky. For the first time in months, she felt the ache of home—aching because it was hers, and now, gods help her, she wasn’t arriving alone.

Behind her, Jaime Lannister leaned casually against the deck rail, as if he had been born to sea voyages. His golden hair caught the sun, his coat was immaculate, and he looked disgustingly comfortable despite the ferry’s sway. He even smirked when she glanced his way.

“Picturesque,” he said. “I half-expected a desolate rock with goats.”

Brienne’s jaw tightened. “Careful. You’ll be surrounded by Tarth men soon. They don’t take kindly to insults.”

“Men?” Jaime arched a brow, amused. “Plural?”

She didn’t answer. She didn’t need to. She could already picture the weekend ahead: her uncles towering, her cousins whispering, her aunts judging, and Jaime somehow charming all of them while she survived the comedic horror of it. Picture him waltzing through the dining hall, effortlessly winning them over with quips and smiles while I trip over a chair and spill wine on the cat—great, just perfect. She shivered slightly, half in anticipation, half in dread.

The ferry docked, and as they descended the gangway, the answer came lumbering toward them in the form of three massive figures. Selwyn Tarth, broad-shouldered, kind-eyed, and grinning from ear to ear, led the charge. On either side of him came her uncles, Endrew and Errol, both cut from the same towering cloth. They moved like a wall of stone, boots shaking the planks of the pier.

“Brienne!” Selwyn’s voice boomed across the docks, startling a flock of gulls into flight. He swept her into a crushing embrace before she could so much as set her bags down. She stiffened, heat rushing to her face.

“Daddy,” she managed, muffled against his shoulder.

“And this,” Selwyn said, pulling back to beam at Jaime, “must be the young man we’ve heard so much about.”

Selwyn’s mind flickered. Here she was, his daughter, returning home despite her boss always keeping her busy, always delaying trips back—now she's here with that same boss, who seemed… respectful, attentive, genuinely interested. Could this be true? Could she really be happy? He squinted at Jaime, watching how carefully he glanced at Brienne, how protective his stance was. Perhaps this wasn’t a work arrangement after all. Perhaps this was… real.

Jaime stepped forward, all polished charm. “Jaime Lannister. An honor, Mr. Tarth.”

But before Selwyn could reply, Uncle Endrew clapped a massive hand on Jaime’s shoulder. The lion staggered, just barely, but caught himself with a tight smile.

“Small, isn’t he?” Endrew rumbled, turning to Errol.

“Like a lad who wandered off from his tourney,” Errol agreed gravely, stroking his beard.

Jaime’s jaw flexed, but he inclined his head. “Compact. Efficient. Easier to navigate… Tarth roads, apparently.”

Brienne choked on a laugh. Oh gods, he’s getting roasted already, and this is just the pier. Selwyn’s eyes twinkled with barely contained mirth, and he herded them toward the waiting jeep.

As Jaime trailed between her uncles—both of whom seemed determined to loom over him like twin mountains—Brienne allowed herself the smallest, secret smile. Brienne bit back a snort. For once, Jaime Lannister—lion of the office, terror of interns—was the one being measured.

And gods, it was glorious.

_______________

The jeep gladiator rattled up the winding road to Evenfall Keep, its towers climbing higher with every turn. Brienne sat stiffly across from Jaime, Selwyn beside her, her uncles flanking like sentinels. Every time Jaime shifted, Endrew’s knee seemed to “accidentally” bump his, and Errol’s beard twitched with some unspoken joke. Jaime bore it with brittle grace, the perfect picture of a man who could command armies but not survive a Tarth family assessment.

When the jeep finally rolled to a halt in the courtyard, the sound of laughter spilled through the open gates. Waiting at the steps was a figure Brienne hadn’t expected to see—not yet, not here.

“Robb?” Her voice lifted, startled, almost breaking.

The young wolf turned at once, broad smile splitting his face. His auburn curls caught the sun, his eyes warm and impossibly familiar. He strode forward, all long strides and boyish enthusiasm, and swept Brienne into a hug before she could so much as set down her satchel.

“Gods, Brienne. I heard you were coming home and I couldn’t wait another day in Winterfell. I had to see you.” His arms tightened, and he buried his face briefly against her shoulder, as if she were the most important person in his life, as if nothing in the world could be more natural.

Brienne’s breath caught. She returned the embrace without thinking, gripping him just as fiercely. Heat climbed her cheeks, unbidden, but she didn’t let go. For the first time in days—weeks—she felt safe.

Jaime watched from a step below, his jaw tightening. The wolf’s easy claim, the way Brienne melted into it, the flush creeping across her cheekbones—it landed in his gut like a sucker punch. Ridiculous, he told himself. Absolutely ridiculous. But still, the pang cut sharper than he expected.

Selwyn, observing, noted Jaime’s tight jaw, the subtle tension in his hands, the way his eyes flicked with jealousy when he saw Brienne and Robb hugged. A small smile curved Selwyn’s lips. The proof was there—this was real. His daughter was cherished.

When at last Brienne pulled back, she looked flustered, brushing at her sleeve as though Robb’s warmth lingered. He grinned down at her, utterly oblivious.

“You look well,” he said softly.

“You too,” she managed, her voice quieter than she intended.

A flicker of silence stretched between them, awkward only to Jaime, who cleared his throat with unnecessary force.

“Introductions?” His tone was too smooth, too sharp.

Brienne blinked, startled, then gestured quickly. “Jaime Lannister—Robb Stark. And his sister, Sansa.”

Sansa had descended the steps more gracefully than her brother, all silk and soft smiles. She curtsied lightly to Jaime, her eyes bright with curiosity. “The Jaime Lannister? Father says you’re the most brilliant man in publishing.”

Jaime’s smirk softened into genuine charm at once. “Your father has excellent taste.”

Sansa’s laugh was light, almost musical. “I think you’ll find our house full of excellent taste, ser. Welcome to Tarth.”

Brienne stared, baffled at how quickly Sansa seemed charmed. Meanwhile, Robb’s gaze lingered, cool and appraising, every bit the wary brother. He stepped subtly closer to Brienne, his arm brushing hers in quiet possession.

Jaime noticed. Of course he noticed. And the sting of it gnawed deeper than he wanted to admit.

Brienne’s stomach fluttered. Every introduction, every small smile from her family, heightened the stakes. One wrong move and the charade would crumble before it even began.

Selwyn clapped his hands, oblivious to the undercurrent. “Inside, inside! We’ll feast tonight! Brienne, your room is ready, and Jaime—” his grin widened “—we’ve setup a space beside her room to accommodate you as well.”

Brienne nearly tripped on the steps. Jaime arched a brow. I can feel my life flashing before me and my boss’s smirk is the cherry on top.

_______________

The great doors of Evenfall Keep swung wide, the familiar chill of stone hallways rushing out to meet them. Brienne hadn’t set foot inside for over a year, yet nothing had changed—the banners stitched with sapphire thread, the faint tang of salt carried on the wind, the distant clang of the forge down by the cliffside. Home. And somehow, impossibly, she had brought her boss Jaime Lannister into it.

Selwyn all but herded them through the entry hall, booming orders to servants as he went. Her uncles peeled off toward the kitchens—“to make sure the wine is decent”—while Sansa and Robb lingered close, curiosity sparking in every glance.

By the time they reached the solar, the room was already crowded with cousins, retainers, and curious neighbors who had somehow caught wind of her return. The chatter dimmed when Jaime entered, golden and smiling, Brienne stiff at his side.

“Daddy, why are there so many people in the house already?” Brienne whispered, eyeing the throngs gathering around their house. “Uncle Endrew’s birthday isn’t until tomorrow.”

Selwyn's gaze softened, placing a hand over hers. “Because you’re home, daughter. It’s been far too long since you’ve been here, and we couldn’t wait a single day to see you.” The gesture touched her, and she realized Jaime had monopolized her time all year, and she had canceled trips to help him. Now, Selwyn had gone ahead and planned this, and she felt a pang of warmth and irritation all at once.

Selwyn grinned and clapped a heavy hand on Jaime’s shoulder. “My daughter brings home a Lannister, and not just any Lannister. The gods must be smiling on us.”

Brienne froze. No, no, no. I can’t survive this level of theatricality. “Daddy—”

But Selwyn wasn’t listening. He turned to the gathered kin, voice carrying easily. “Brienne is engaged! To Jaime Lannister himself!”

The room erupted. Cheers, laughter, the clang of mugs against the long oak table. Cousins rushed forward, aunts dabbed at their eyes, even the serving girls exchanged excited whispers.

Brienne’s stomach dropped clean through the floor. “No, that’s not—”

Jaime’s arm slid smoothly around her waist, pulling her flush against his side before she could finish. He smiled as though he’d been born to this moment, to this lie, and dipped his head gallantly. “It’s true. I begged her for weeks, but Brienne is a stubborn woman. Lucky for me, she finally agreed to spare me a life of loneliness.”

A chorus of awws answered him. Brienne’s stomach dropped clean through the floor. I can’t believe this is my life.

Sansa clasped her hands together, beaming. “That’s so romantic!”

Robb, by contrast, looked as though he’d swallowed something sour. His eyes flicked from Jaime’s hand at Brienne’s waist to the blush spreading up her throat, his jaw tightening with every passing heartbeat.

Selwyn’s eyes misted as he took Brienne’s hands. “Daughter, you’ve made me the happiest man alive. To think I’d live to see you so cherished.”

Brienne opened her mouth—surely now, surely she could set the record straight—but Jaime’s fingers gave the faintest squeeze at her side. A silent warning. A reminder of what was at stake.

She swallowed the words.

Someone shouted for a feast. Another demanded to see the ring. Brienne’s breath stuttered; her hands were bare.

Without hesitation, Jaime tugged a band from his own hand—a heavy Lannister gold band—and slid it onto her finger with infuriating flourish. “It’s temporary,” he announced smoothly, “until we find something that matches her eyes.”

The crowd swooned. Brienne wanted the floor to open and swallow her whole.

And yet—when she dared glance at Jaime, he looked the part so well it unsettled her. Not the smug lion she knew from the office, but a man playing fiancé with ease, with warmth, with just enough sincerity to make her chest ache.

She hated him for it.

She hated herself more for the flicker of something else, something softer, that stirred beneath the mortification.

Chapter Text

The dining hall of Evenfall Keep had never felt so loud. Laughter ricocheted off the stone walls, clashing with the squeal of the fiddlers crammed into the corner like overstuffed luggage. Torches blazed in the sconces, but the real fire came from the crowd gathered around the long table—dozens of Tarth kin, neighbors, and staff, all turned out to celebrate Uncle Endrew’s sixtieth birthday… and apparently Brienne’s homecoming.

Brienne sat at the edge of the chaos, shoulders stiff, wishing she could disappear into the stonework. Across from her, Jaime Lannister lounged as if he’d been born to feasts and family chaos, golden hair catching the firelight, goblet in hand. He wore charm like armor, and to Brienne’s mounting horror, it was working.

Uncle Endrew, already rosy-cheeked with wine, pounded the table so hard his fork bounced. “So, Lannister! Tell us how you wooed our Brienne. The whole story. Every detail. Embarrassing bits mandatory.”

A cheer rose around the hall. “Yes! The story!” “How’d you win her?” “Who chased who?”

Brienne nearly choked on her wine. “That’s not necessa—”

But Jaime’s hand brushed hers under the table, steady and maddening. He leaned back, perfectly at ease, his voice smooth as silk. “Oh, it’s a tale of persistence. I pursued your niece for weeks. She refused me again and again. I’d bring her coffee, she’d throw it out. I’d send flowers, she’d tell me she was allergic. Brutal rejections, really.  I almost hid in the archives to escape further humiliation and almost gave up hope.”
“But I’m a Lannister,” he added slyly, tilting his goblet. “We don’t quit. And if you’ve ever argued with your Brienne, you know she doesn’t either. We were doomed to clash until it turned into… something else.”

Aunt Larra gasped dramatically, clasping her hands. “And yet you didn’t!”

“Of course not.” Jaime turned, his smirk softening just enough to look convincing. “When a man meets the love of his life, or at least someone who makes his life unbearable in the best possible way—he doesn’t quit. And eventually…” His eyes lingered on Brienne, wicked and warm all at once. “She gave in.”

The table erupted in cheers, mugs banging against wood.

Brienne flushed crimson and murmured to herself. Not how it happened. Not even close.

“Who fell first?” someone shouted from further down the table. “Who tumbled head over heels first?”

“Oh, that’s easy,” Jaime said without hesitation, his smirk sharpening. “I did. Hopelessly. The moment I laid eyes on her.”

Brienne sputtered, nearly knocking over her cup. “Jaime—warning tone,”

Her uncles roared with laughter. “The lion brought to heel!” Endrew slapped his knee, tears of mirth streaking down his weathered face. “Gods, Brienne, you’ve finally tamed one!”

She wanted to melt into the flagstones. Instead, she shot Jaime a look that promised death. He only raised his goblet in mock salute, eyes glinting with amusement.

Robb Stark, seated two chairs away, did not laugh. His jaw was tight, his gaze fixed on the pair of them with quiet suspicion. Beside him, Sansa smiled dreamily, clearly swept away by the romance of it all.

Selwyn, meanwhile, beamed like a man whose every prayer had been answered. He lifted his own goblet high, voice booming over the hall. “To Brienne and Jaime—the happiest couple in Westeros!”

The cheer that followed was deafening. Mugs clashed, fiddles screeched a triumphant tune, and Brienne sat frozen in the middle of it all, Jaime’s hand still maddeningly steady against hers beneath the table.

And gods help her—though every word of his tale had been a lie, though every smirk was designed to needle her—there had been something in his voice, fleeting and dangerous, that didn’t feel like jest at all.

_______________

A servant wheeled in a massive cake, candles flickering merrily.

“Make a wish, Endrew!” someone shouted.

Endrew’s eyes twinkled as he leaned back in his chair. “I wish for another sixty years of family chaos—and maybe a quiet moment to strangle that Lannister!”

The crowd laughed, and Jaime gave Brienne a conspiratorial wink.
The din of cheers had barely quieted when Uncle Errol leaned forward, his beard glistening with ale, and wagged a finger. “All this talk of romance, but we’ve yet to see any proof.”

“Proof?” Brienne repeated, aghast.

“A kiss!” someone shouted from the far end of the table.

The word rippled through the hall like wildfire. “A kiss! A kiss! Let’s see it!”

Brienne nearly toppled off her chair. “Absolutely not—”

“Oh, come now.” Aunt Larra’s voice cut clean through the raucous chanting. She fanned herself dramatically, eyes gleaming with mischief. “We’re family. If you’re to wed, we should at least be allowed a glimpse of the affection that binds you.”

The hall erupted again, voices overlapping, fists pounding on the table. “Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!”

Brienne’s stomach dropped. She turned sharply to Jaime, expecting him to wave it off, to scoff at the absurdity. Instead, he looked amused. Worse—he looked game.

Jaime leaned closer, his voice pitched low enough that only she could hear. “What’s the harm in a little theater, Tarth? Unless you’re afraid?”

Her jaw tightened. “I am not—”

But before she could finish, he turned, grinning at the crowd like a king granting a favor. “If it will satisfy you…”

The cheer was deafening.

Brienne sat frozen as Jaime angled toward her. His hand lifted, cupping her cheek with a gentleness that made her heart lurch in her chest. He leaned in—close enough that she caught the faint, maddening scent of cedar and leather—and brushed his lips softly against her cheek.

A wave of groans and boos swept the hall. “That’s not a kiss!” “On the mouth!” “Do it properly!”

From across the table, the aunts and cousins who had once whispered about Brienne’s height, her plainness, her “unapproachable” demeanor recoiled in genuine shock. Aunt Helaine clutched her pearls, jaw slack. Cousin Emil’s fork clattered onto the table, eyes wide, while cousin Amelia practically tripped over her chair in disbelief. “He… kissed… her like she's a prize?” Amelia whispered, voice trembling with scandalized awe. “And she… allowed him?” Laughter and gasps mingled as the realization spread, a ripple of stunned chatter running through the family like wildfire.

Heat scalded Brienne’s face. She opened her mouth to protest, to insist this circus had gone far enough—but Jaime was already turning back to her, mischief blazing in his green eyes.

“They want proper,” he murmured. “Shall we give it to them?”

Before she could answer, his mouth claimed hers.

It wasn’t gentle this time. His lips pressed firm and sure against hers, his hand sliding to the back of her neck, holding her steady as the world tilted. Brienne’s breath caught, her thoughts scattering like leaves in a gale. The hall roared, but it faded into nothing, drowned beneath the sudden heat searing through her veins.

She meant to resist—truly, she did. To push him away, to remind herself this was all a lie. But the moment his mouth parted against hers, coaxing hers to follow, her body betrayed her. Her lips parted, a gasp slipping free, and Jaime took the invitation greedily.

His tongue brushed hers—hot, daring, devastating—and Brienne forgot how to breathe. She forgot her uncles roaring with delight, forgot her father’s beaming smile, forgot even her own outrage. There was only the shocking sweetness of his mouth, the molten pull low in her belly, the terrifying truth that she was kissing Jaime Lannister her boss back.

By the time he drew back, Aunt Helaine had dropped her napkin entirely, eyes wide and unblinking. Cousin Emil whispered to Cousin Amelia, “Did… did anyone else see that?” Cousin Amelia shushed him with a trembling hand, mouth agape, as if the world itself had shifted beneath their feet. Even distant relatives who had whispered doubts about Brienne’s desirability now stared, mouths half-open, silently conceding that she was utterly untouchable in this moment.

When he finally drew away, he wiped her lips carefully and leaned again and pressed a playful kiss to the tip of her nose, sparking fresh laughter from the crowd.

The hall erupted into applause so thunderous it shook the rafters.

Brienne sat motionless, lips tingling, chest heaving. She couldn’t look at him, couldn’t look at anyone. Gods, she could barely think.

Jaime, infuriatingly, looked utterly unruffled. He raised his goblet in a lazy salute, smirk curling his lips as if he hadn’t just set her world on fire. “Satisfied?” he asked the room.

The hall bellowed its approval.

Beside him, Brienne’s hands trembled in her lap. She told herself it was fury. It had to be fury. But deep down, beneath the din of her family’s joy, she knew the truth: no one had ever kissed her like that. And worse—she wanted to feel it again.

_______________

The applause finally began to taper off, though the room still hummed with laughter and sly commentary. Brienne could feel eyes clinging to her like burrs, the weight of every knowing smirk, every elbow jab. She wanted the floor to split open and swallow her whole.

“Saints preserve me,” she muttered, staring hard at the wood grain of the table.

Jaime, of course, looked positively smug. He leaned back, one arm draped casually along the bench behind her shoulders, as though they hadn’t just performed a scandalous display in front of her entire bloodline. “You’re welcome,” he whispered, low enough for only her ears.

Brienne’s head whipped toward him, eyes blazing. “Welcome? You arrogant—”

“Lovely kiss, wasn’t it?” he cut in, his grin positively sinful.

She opened her mouth, ready to flay him with words, but Uncle Errol bellowed over the crowd, “Well, if that’s not true love, I’ll eat my beard!” Laughter followed, mugs and goblets clinked, and the chaos spun away again, the family feasting as though nothing unusual had happened.

Brienne pressed her palms into her thighs, willing her heartbeat to steady. She couldn’t—wouldn’t—let him see how rattled she was.

_______________

The night continued—cake was cut, candles blown, gifts unwrapped, songs sung, stories told, and too much ale consumed. Jaime played his part with ease, charming uncles with sharp wit and earning approving nods from Brienne’s aunts. Even young cousins clustered near him, wide-eyed as he spun tales of city life and publishing.

Brienne, for her part, endured it. She kept her head down, filling goblets and clearing plates, pretending not to notice how often her father’s gaze drifted fondly toward her and Jaime, as though he’d already begun writing them into the family’s lore.

At last, when the tables were littered with crumbs and candles burned low, Selwyn rose. “A word, Jaime.”

The hall quieted just enough for the summons to carry. Jaime arched a brow, then pushed to his feet. Brienne watched them go, unease gnawing at her belly. Her father wasn’t one for speeches unless he had something weighty to say.

_______________

They stepped out into the cool night air. The wind off the sea carried the tang of salt, rustling the banners above the keep. For a moment they stood in silence, Selwyn gazing out toward the dark horizon.

“She’s a remarkable woman,” Selwyn said at last, his voice calm, deliberate. “My Brienne.”

Jaime gave a small, noncommittal smile. “That, I don’t dispute.”

“She has always believed herself unworthy,” Selwyn continued, as though Jaime hadn’t spoken. “Too tall, too plain, too… much. The world has been cruel in teaching her such lies. And yet, she has the fiercest heart I have ever known.” He turned, eyes steady on Jaime. “If you mean to stand beside her—even in pretense—you must remember she deserves more than ridicule. She deserves someone who sees her.”

For once, Jaime had no easy quip ready. The words pressed against his chest with unexpected weight.

He cleared his throat, eyes flicking away. “You think I’d mock her?”

“I think,” Selwyn said quietly, “that you hide behind a clever tongue. But cleverness cannot carry a life. My daughter deserves gentleness. She deserves truth.”

The air hung heavy between them. Jaime shifted, uncharacteristically unsettled, as though Selwyn’s gaze pierced deeper than he cared to admit.

Finally, Selwyn’s expression softened. He clapped Jaime lightly on the shoulder. “You’ll forgive a father’s warning. She is my only child. My whole heart.”

Jaime nodded, finding his voice at last. “She deserves nothing less than that.”

When they returned inside, Brienne glanced up from the hearth where she’d been helping a cousin coax the flames higher. Her eyes searched Jaime’s face, and for a fleeting moment, she thought she saw something different there—not arrogance, not smugness, but something quieter. Uncertain.

And that unsettled her even more than the kiss had.

Chapter Text

The last guest had stumbled home and the Tarth cousins had stopped singing bawdy songs in the kitchen, Brienne thought she might finally have a chance to breathe. She paused at the top of the stairs, glancing down at the remnants of the birthday feast—half-melted candles on the long oak table, cake crumbs scattered like tiny battlegrounds, and the distant sound of someone snoring on the sofa. Her cheeks still burned from the memory of that kiss—Gods, those kisses—and her father’s glowing approval only made it worse. She wanted nothing more than to retreat upstairs, shut her door, and bury herself under a mountain of blankets until the earth swallowed her whole.

But fate, and Selwyn Tarth’s bottomless hospitality, had other plans.

She pushed open the door to her childhood bedroom and froze. Jaime Lannister was already there.

He was in shirtsleeves, golden hair catching the lamplight as he rifled through the stack of books on her desk. He looked impossibly at home, as if he’d wandered into a luxury Airbnb rather than her most private sanctuary.

“What,” Brienne sputtered, “are you doing here?”

He glanced up, unfazed. “Your father said there weren’t enough guest rooms. Apparently, we’re to share.” His grin widened, wicked and far too pleased with himself. “How convenient.”

Brienne nearly dropped her overnight bag. “Absolutely not. There must be—”

“—a sofa downstairs? Occupied. Linen closet? Full. Cousins sprawled everywhere like drunken bears.” He stretched lazily, settling back on the edge of her bed as if daring her to challenge him. “Afraid you’ll ravish me in my sleep?”

“Afraid I’ll smother you with a pillow,” she shot back, then her jaw clenched. “Get off my bed.”

Jaime didn’t budge. Instead, he plucked one of her old paperbacks from the nightstand, flipping through it with a smirk. “Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen. Gods, you really were a romantic, weren’t you?”

Color flared hot in her cheeks. She snatched the book from his hands and stuffed it back into the drawer. “I’ll sleep on the floor.”

That startled him. He blinked. “You? No. Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’ve slept on worse,” she muttered.

“Well, so have I,” Jaime countered, standing now, that infuriating glint in his green eyes. “But I’m not about to let you cramp that long frame on hardwood. I’ll take the floor.”

“You? On the floor?” Brienne barked a laugh. “You’d last all of five minutes before complaining.”

He placed a hand over his heart in mock offense. “I’ll have you know I’ve endured far greater discomfort than a night without a mattress. Besides—” his grin tilted roguish “—you’d toss and turn all night out of guilt if I made you sleep down there. And I can’t have that. I need my fake fiancée well-rested for tomorrow’s circus.”

Her scowl deepened, but there was a reluctant heat curling low in her belly at his casual “fiancée.” Seven help her.

Jaime crouched, tugging a pillow from the bed and dropping it onto the rug with theatrical flourish. He sprawled out as though it were the most luxurious mattress in all of Westeros. “See? Perfect. Hardly notice the difference.”

Brienne crossed her arms, glaring down at him. “You’re impossible.”

“True,” he said easily, folding his arms behind his head. His grin softened into something dangerously close to genuine. “But I keep my word. You’ll sleep in your bed, Tarth. I’ll guard the floor.”

Brienne opened her mouth to argue again but stopped. For once, there was no mockery in his tone. No sly undercurrent. Just a man, oddly earnest, insisting on her comfort.

Against her better judgment, her chest tightened.

“Fine,” she said at last, gruffly. She tugged the covers back and climbed into bed, back ramrod straight, staring at the ceiling as if sheer willpower might erase the last twelve hours of humiliation.

On the floor, Jaime shifted, the rustle of fabric followed by a low, contented sigh. “See? Cozy.”

“Die quietly,” she muttered.

Brienne squeezed her eyes shut, willing her heartbeat to slow. She’d survive this. She had to.

But gods, it was going to be a very long night.

_______________

The silence stretched. Not awkward exactly—more taut, like the air itself was holding its breath. Brienne lay rigid beneath the quilt, every muscle locked in stubborn refusal to acknowledge the tall golden man currently occupying her rug.

“Are you asleep yet?” Jaime’s voice drifted up, low and lazy.

“No.”

A pause. Then, with infuriating amusement: “Thought so. You breathe louder when you’re asleep. Like a dragon.”

Her head snapped toward the edge of the bed, indignant. “I do not.”

He chuckled softly, unrepentant. “Trust me. I’ve endured enough of your sighing to know the difference.”

Brienne huffed and rolled onto her side, facing away from him. But his laughter lingered, softer now — like he didn’t mean to let it slip.
If she kept her eyes fixed on the moonlight spilling through the curtains, maybe she could forget that Jaime Lannister was stretched out only a few feet away, all warmth and charm and trouble.

For a blessed moment, there was quiet again. Then his voice returned, softer now. “Does it ever bother you? The way they look at you?”

Her breath stalled.

She knew what he meant—every sidelong glance, every whispered remark from colleagues and strangers alike. Too tall. Too broad. Too something. Even her own family, in moments of careless affection, had let the words slip. And now Jaime, of all people, was asking her that.

She swallowed, fighting the lump in her throat. “I don’t think about it.”

“Liar.”

Her head whipped back toward him, eyes flashing. “What would you know of it?”

Jaime propped himself up on one elbow, his face dappled with pale light. For once, there was no smirk. No armor of arrogance. Just quiet honesty. “Enough to recognize it. Enough to know it cuts deeper than you let on.”

Brienne’s mouth went dry. She wanted to snap, to dismiss him, but the words tangled. Instead, she pulled the quilt higher, muttering, “You get used to it.”

“Do you?” His gaze held hers, unflinching.

Something in her chest cracked. She looked away, blinking hard. “Better than letting it swallow me whole.”

For a long moment, he didn’t reply. She thought—hoped—he’d let it drop. But then Jaime shifted, rolling onto his back, staring up at the same ceiling she’d been glaring at minutes ago.

“You think I don’t understand,” he said finally. “But I do. Different reasons, same result.”

She frowned, caught off guard. “You?”

His right hand flexed instinctively before curling it to his side. Even in the dim light, she noticed. “Lost this,” he murmured, voice too light to disguise the weight beneath. “And suddenly I wasn’t Jaime Lannister, golden boy, heir apparent. I was damaged. Broken. People didn’t say it outright—didn’t have to. Their eyes did the talking.”

Brienne stared. She had known the story—his hand, the accident—but never heard him speak of it like this.

She whispered before she could stop herself. “That’s why you…”

“Overcompensate?” He gave a crooked grin, but it lacked bite. “Maybe. Or maybe I just refuse to let anyone see me bleed.” His gaze flicked to her, sharp, searching. “Sound familiar?”

Her throat tightened. Gods, he was insufferable. And gods, he was right.

She turned onto her back, staring at the ceiling with him, the two of them lying parallel yet worlds apart. For a while neither spoke, the silence heavy but not unbearable.

Finally, Jaime exhaled, a long, weary sound. “You know, for someone who terrifies half the office, you’re not half bad once you stop glaring.”

Her lips twitched despite herself. “And for someone who thinks the world revolves around him, you manage to surprise me. Occasionally.”

His chuckle was low, genuine. “Careful, Tarth. Keep talking like that and I’ll think you actually like me.”

Her pulse stuttered, and she was grateful the darkness hid the heat creeping up her neck. “Don’t push your luck.”

They fell quiet again, the kind of quiet that hummed with unspoken things. Outside, the wind rattled through the trees; inside, the air grew warmer, closer.

For the first time in a very long time, Brienne didn’t feel entirely alone in her own skin.

_______________

The quiet stretched, warm and fragile, like spun glass. Brienne turned onto her side again, meaning to put her back to him, but her gaze snagged instead. Jaime was watching her—openly, unguarded, no mask of arrogance in sight.

Her heart stuttered.

It would be so easy. If Jaime is on her bed right now, just a tilt forward, a handful of inches, and she’d know what his mouth felt like against hers without an audience, without pretenses, without the excuse of proof or a charade to uphold.

His green eyes flicked down to her lips, then back up. The air between them tightened, heavy with something that made her pulse pound in her ears.

Gods. Was this actually happening?

Brienne’s heart thundered, and she leaned—just a fraction—before a thunderous knock rattled the door.

“Brienne? You awake, lass?” Uncle Errol’s voice boomed, far too loud for the hour. The handle jiggled once, twice. “I think I left my flask—”

Brienne shot upright, nearly smacking her head on the headboard. Jaime cursed under his breath, scrambling halfway up from the rug.

“Don’t come in!” Brienne barked, probably louder than necessary. Her face was on fire.

Too late. The door creaked open a crack, and Uncle Errol’s ruddy face poked through, eyes squinting suspiciously at the sight of Jaime on the floor and Brienne flushed scarlet in bed.

“Ah,” he said, waggling his brows. “Well. Don’t mind me. Carry on.”

The door shut again before she could sputter a defense. Jaime groaned, dragging a hand down his face, while Brienne buried hers in her pillow.

“I’m going to kill him,” she muttered into the quilt.

“Please do. Slowly,” Jaime agreed from the rug, but there was a laugh in his voice, muffled and warm.

Eventually, silence reclaimed the room. Tense at first, then soft, then steady as their breaths fell into rhythm.

Brienne didn’t remember when sleep claimed her, only that sometime deep in the night, she rolled over. And Jaime was there—no longer on the floor but beside her, his arm curving around her waist as though it belonged there. She should have shoved him off, protested, drawn her lines again. Instead, she sank into the heat of him, her cheek pressed to his chest, lulled by the steady thud of his heart.

When the door opened in the morning, it was Selwyn Tarth who found them.

He stood in the doorway for a long beat, taking in the sight of his only daughter curled against the infamous Jaime Lannister, Jaime’s golden head tucked close to hers, their limbs tangled in something that looked a great deal like peace.

Selwyn’s brows lifted, but he said nothing. Only cleared his throat—loudly.

Brienne jolted awake, realizing at once where she was, who she was plastered against, and how very good it felt. She shot upright, nearly toppling off the bed. Jaime stirred with a groan, blinking himself awake, his arm still half-curled around her waist until she jerked free.

“Daddy!” Brienne squeaked, mortified.

“Good morning,” Selwyn said mildly, though his eyes twinkled. “Breakfast is ready.”

And with that, he shut the door again, leaving silence thick as stew—and the unmistakable sound of him chuckling to himself down the hall.

Brienne pressed her hands to her face, groaning. “Gods. Kill me now.”

Jaime stretched luxuriously across the bed she’d just abandoned, grinning despite his mussed hair. “Not a chance. That was the best night’s sleep I’ve had in years.”

She glared — half-hearted.
He smiled. “Worth it.”

And in that quiet, stolen moment, the line between pretense and something dangerously real blurred.

Chapter Text

Breakfast was excruciating.

Every time Brienne lifted her eyes, she caught her father smiling like a man who had just won a lifelong bet. Her uncles kept elbowing one another, muttering not-so-quietly about “young love,” and her cousins snickered behind their mugs of coffee.

And Jaime? Jaime sat at the head of the table as if he had been born there, grinning like a cat who’d caught the canary, utterly unbothered that only hours ago Selwyn had discovered him tangled with Brienne in a most compromising arrangement.

Brienne stabbed her eggs with unnecessary force, stabbing the yolk like it had personally offended her.

The chaos of laughter and chatter quieted when Aunt Larra cleared her throat, laying a hand dramatically on her chest. “Now that we’ve all had our fun,” she said, eyes twinkling, “there’s still the matter of tradition.”

Brienne froze mid-bite. “Tradition?”

“The wedding,” Uncle Errol supplied around a mouthful of toast. “It must be held on the Tarth beach. Always has been. Always will be.”

A chorus of agreement followed—cousins, aunts, uncles, all nodding and humming as if the matter had already been settled.

Selwyn beamed, raising his glass. “The sea has witnessed every Tarth union for generations. And it will witness yours.”

Brienne choked. Jaime thumped her lightly on the back, the picture of helpful concern while biting back laughter. “What an honor,” he drawled. “The beach it is.”

She shot him a look sharp enough to flay him alive. He only grinned wider.

“A date must be set,” Uncle Endrew declared, slamming his palm on the table as if he’d won an argument in the lists. “A union without a date is no union at all.”

“Aye,” Cousin Edmar chimed in, crumbs flying. “The people of Tarth deserve a feast. A wedding on the beach, with torches lit and the waves as witness. None of this courthouse nonsense.”

“And Brienne must wear the seashell crown,” Aunt Larra insisted, clapping her hands. “Every bride in our family has. My mother wore it, and her mother before her. It is tradition.”

Brienne’s fork froze. “The seashell crown?” she echoed faintly.

Selwyn leaned forward, eyes shining. “Pearls and shells gathered from Evenfall’s shore. You’ll look radiant, sweetling.”

Jaime coughed into his napkin to hide a grin. 

“And what of the Binding Steps?” a younger cousin asked eagerly. “You and Jaime must dance them together on the sand, barefoot.”

“The what?” Brienne asked flatly.

“The Binding Steps,” Selwyn explained warmly. “One step for loyalty, one for love, one for children to come.” His voice caught, eyes damp. “Your mother would have been so proud to see it.”

Brienne’s heart lurched painfully. She forced a nod, throat too tight to speak.

“So it’s settled,” Uncle Endrew boomed. “Three days’ time. The full moon will bless the vows.”

“Three days?” Brienne croaked.
“Perfect!” Aunt Larra scribbled furiously on her notepad. “Seashell crown, Binding Steps, lemon cake, garlands.”

Jaime leaned toward Brienne, low enough for only her to hear. “Three days, sweetheart. Better start practicing those dance steps.”

She kicked him under the table.

_______________

Later that afternoon, Jaime escaped into town under the guise of “running errands.” In truth, he needed air—distance from the suffocating cheer of Brienne’s family and the way her father’s eyes gleamed every time he looked at them together.

He ducked into a corner café, ordered an espresso he didn’t need, and pulled out his phone. One name blinked at him like a lifeline.

Tyrion.

His brother picked up on the second ring, voice thick with amusement. “Well, well. If it isn’t Westeros’s most eligible bachelor turned runaway groom. How’s island life?”

“Drowning,” Jaime muttered. “They want us to get married on the beach. There’s talk of flower crowns and Binding Steps.”

Tyrion’s laugh was sharp and delighted. “Gods, I wish I were there. Please tell me Brienne’s suffering as much as you.”

Jaime leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temple. “She’s furious. Mortified. Half-convinced I’ve ruined her life.”

“And yet,” Tyrion said slyly, “you sound…not entirely opposed.”

Jaime went quiet. He thought of the way she’d leaned into him in her sleep, cheek against his chest, how right it had felt. He thought of her eyes in the dark last night, wide and uncertain, as if she might let him in if only for a moment.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he admitted finally.

“That’s new,” Tyrion teased, softer now. “Careful, brother. You might actually be falling.”

Jaime hung up before Tyrion could gloat further.

By the time he drove back up the winding road to Evenfall, the sun was low, streaking the house in gold. He let himself in quietly, padding through the familiar chaos of dogs barking, cousins laughing, and Selwyn humming to himself in the kitchen.

“Brienne?” he called, heading for the stairs.

No answer.

He climbed to the second floor, loosening his tie, and pushed open the door to their shared room—

—only to come face-to-face with Brienne, utterly naked, stepping out of the bathroom in a cloud of steam.

They both froze.

Time stopped.

Jaime’s brain short-circuited. He tried to look away but his eyes betrayed him, scanning from her hair to her shoulders and to her arms down in the most graceless, painfully human way possible. 

Brienne shrieked, fumbling for a towel—which promptly slipped from her grasp. Jaime flailed backward, tripping over the rug and crashing into the dresser. A stack of books tumbled to the floor with a sound that might as well have been a drumroll for his humiliation.

Oh gods, oh gods, oh gods. Totally innocent. I am completely innocent. Why does she have to be—why is she—why is everything about her—Oh gods, yes, she’s glowing. Don’t look at her—look at the floor! Floor! Floor is fine!

“Oh, for the love of—GET OUT!” Brienne bellowed, eyes blazing, towel clutched like a weapon.

Jaime slapped a hand over his eyes, spinning blindly toward the door. “I didn’t see anything!” he lied shamelessly, ears burning.

“You saw everything!” she snapped.

“I I said I didn’t!” He backed toward the door, tripping over the rug again. “Absolutely nothing! Blind as a bat! My eyes are sealed! Stop judging me with your perfect—” Damn it. She’s glaring. Judging me. Gods, yes. Totally ruined.

Finally, he staggered out, slamming the door behind him. He leaned against the wall, chest heaving. Pulse racing. Mind a chaotic jumble of awe, panic, and admiration.
She’s… incredible. I don’t stand a chance. I am officially doomed. But gods help me, if I ever get the chance again, I’m memorizing every inch. Just kidding! Totally kidding! Maybe.

He leaned against the wall, chest heaving, pulse racing like he’d just survived a battlefield.

Inside the room, Brienne groaned loud enough to carry.

Jaime scrubbed a hand over his face, fighting a grin that threatened to split him in two. Gods help him, but the image of her—long, golden, glorious—was seared into his brain forever.

And he was fairly certain she’d never forgive him for it.

_______________

Dinner that evening was a full-blown ambush.

The moment Jaime stepped into the dining room, he realized he’d walked into enemy territory. The long oak table was covered with color swatches, dog-eared bridal magazines, and a terrifying number of Pinterest printouts. Aunt Larra was at the head, directing traffic like a general, while Brienne sat stiff-backed in her chair, arms crossed so tightly they looked welded in place.

“Ah, there he is!” Uncle Errol boomed, clapping Jaime on the back so hard he nearly toppled into the soup tureen. “The groom himself!”

Jaime forced a smile. “That’s…one word for it.”

“Jaime, dear,” Aunt Larra purred, sliding a binder toward him, “we’ve narrowed it down to three possible color schemes. Seafoam and ivory, coral and gold, or lavender with silver accents. Which do you prefer?”

Jaime blinked at the explosion of swatches, each more pastel than the last. “Uh—”

“Seafoam,” Brienne snapped before he could answer. “It’s always seafoam.”

Her aunt beamed. “Wonderful! Then it’s settled.”

“I didn’t agree—” Brienne began, but Selwyn cut her off, chuckling warmly. “My little girl pretending she doesn’t care, when in truth she’s been dreaming of this day since she was small.”

Brienne’s fork clattered against her plate. “Daddy—”

But no one was listening. Cousins chimed in with opinions on cake flavors, flower arrangements, and whether they should hire a harpist or stick to the traditional fiddlers.

Jaime sat frozen, watching the tide sweep over her. It was a comedy of errors for everyone else—uproarious, sentimental, a family swept up in the joy of celebration. But to Brienne, he saw it clearly: every laugh was a weight, every well-meaning suggestion a chain dragging her further into something she never asked for.

And he’d put her there.

Jaime’s smile slipped.

“Jaime!” Uncle Endrew waved a page of sketches under his nose. “Beach seating arrangements—look, if we line the chairs this way, the sunset will be right behind you and Brienne when you say your vows. Romantic, yeah?”

Jaime swallowed hard, looking at the sketch but seeing only Brienne’s tight jaw, her silence sharp as glass. He felt, for the first time, the sharp sting of guilt gnawing through his usual armor of arrogance.

Later, when the chaos finally ebbed and the family drifted into the living room for brandy and card games, Brienne yanked Jaime by the sleeve into the nearest hallway.

The door clicked shut behind them, muffling the laughter beyond.

“You,” she hissed, shoving him against the wall, “have officially ruined my life.”

“Good evening to you, too,” he said, blinking.

“I’m serious, Lannister!” She jabbed a finger into his chest. “Do you have any idea what this is like? To sit there while my entire family plans a wedding—my wedding—like it’s some sort of community fair? Like I’m a prize hog they’re dressing up for show?”

He opened his mouth. Closed it. For once, words didn’t come easily.

Her eyes burned with something deeper than fury—humiliation, maybe even heartbreak. “I was content. My life wasn’t glamorous, but it was mine. And now? Now I’m some fool pretending at happily-ever-after with you, while my father thinks the gods themselves have blessed us.”

Jaime exhaled slowly, guilt heavy in his chest. “Brienne…I didn’t mean for it to go this far.”

She laughed bitterly. “Didn’t mean? You paraded me in front of them, kissed me when they asked for proof, let them believe this farce. And now look—beaches and flower crowns and vows under the godsdamned sunset!”

Her voice cracked on the last word, and Jaime’s heart twisted.

He reached for her hand, but she snatched it away.

“Don’t,” she warned. “Don’t you dare try to charm your way out of this. You may be enjoying yourself, but I’m the one who’ll be left with the ashes when this all burns down.”

With that, she shoved past him and stormed down the hall, shoulders stiff, head held high.

Jaime leaned against the wall, dragging a hand down his face.

For the first time in his life, Jaime Lannister wished he weren’t himself—wished he hadn’t been so glib, so reckless, so selfish. Because now, standing in the wreckage of Brienne’s trust, he realized something terrifying.

He didn’t just want her to play the role. He wanted her. And if he kept going like this, he’d lose her before he ever had a chance.

_______________

Brienne didn’t make it far. By the time she hit the back staircase, Jaime had caught up, long strides eating the distance between them.

“Brienne—”

“Don’t.” She spun on him, eyes blazing. “Not another word.”

He ignored the warning, stepping closer, lowering his voice so the hum of laughter from the living room wouldn’t carry their fight. “You think I wanted this? To be paraded in front of your family like some trophy groom while they pick out seashell garlands? Gods, I can barely breathe in there.”

She scoffed. “Spare me, Boss. You thrive on attention. You live for it.”

“Not this kind,” he shot back, heat edging into his tone. “Not when it’s built on a lie that’s breaking you in half.”

Her breath hitched, just for a second, but she masked it with a glare sharp enough to cut glass. “Don’t pretend you care.”

He laughed, short and bitter. “Don’t pretend I don’t.”

The words landed like a thrown knife, sinking deep before she could deflect. Her shoulders stiffened, arms crossing like armor. “This is all a game to you. That’s what infuriates me most. You’ll waltz back to your penthouse when it’s over, reputation intact, while I’m left here to scrape together whatever’s left of my life.”

Something in him snapped. Jaime closed the last of the space between them, bracing one palm against the wall beside her head. “You think I don’t know what’s at stake? You think I don’t see how much your father adores you, how proud he is? Every time he looks at me, I feel like I’m stealing something from him. From you.”

Her throat worked, but no words came.

“I didn’t plan this,” Jaime said, softer now, leaning close enough that his breath brushed her cheek. “And gods help me, Brienne, I didn’t plan to feel this either.”

Her pulse hammered so loudly she was sure he could hear it. She wanted to shove him away, to tell him he was arrogant, insufferable, unbearable. Instead, she found herself caught—snared by the intensity in his green eyes, the honesty that stripped him bare in a way she hadn’t thought possible.

“Jaime…” It came out half-warning, half-plea.

His gaze flicked down, just briefly, to her mouth. “Tell me you don’t feel it too,” he murmured.

Her lips parted, a thousand denials warring on her tongue. But the longer he held her there, the more fragile they seemed.

She hated him for it. Hated him for knowing her well enough to find the cracks in her armor.

And hated herself more for not pushing him away.

The air between them tightened, hot and electric, until it felt inevitable. He leaned in—slowly, like he was giving her every chance to stop him. Her eyes fluttered shut without permission, her breath catching—

“Brienne?”

Her father’s voice boomed down the hall, warm and oblivious.

They both jolted back like guilty teenagers. Jaime swore under his breath, raking a hand through his hair, while Brienne plastered herself against the wall, trying to slow her pulse.

Selwyn’s head popped around the corner, a genial smile on his face. “There you are. We’re about to cut the lemon cake. Thought you two lovebirds might want the first slice.”

Brienne’s cheeks burned. Jaime, infuriatingly, recovered first, flashing his most disarming grin. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

Her father beamed and disappeared again, leaving the two of them in charged silence.

Brienne pressed a hand to her chest, glaring at Jaime as if sheer force might erase the heat still coiling between them. “This doesn’t change anything,” she whispered, voice unsteady.

Jaime’s answering smile was small, crooked, and far too dangerous. “You keep telling yourself that, sweetheart.”

And as he strode back toward the dining room, Brienne stayed rooted to the wall, every nerve alight, furious at him—furious at herself—for how badly she wanted to follow.

Chapter Text

The morning after the lemon cake debacle was mercifully quiet—until the doorbell rang.

Brienne, still in sweatpants and a faded Evenfall High Swim Team hoodie, shuffled toward the foyer, hair pulled back in a lopsided bun. She expected the mailman. Maybe a neighbor. Instead, when she swung the door open, her stomach dropped.

Walder Frey.

He stood on the porch like a vulture in a tailored suit, thin smile stretched across his face, briefcase in hand. Behind him, a black town car idled at the curb, engine purring like a threat.

“Miss Tarth,” Frey rasped, eyes narrowing with calculating amusement. “Or should I say, future Mrs. Lannister.”

Brienne’s pulse stuttered. “Mr. Frey. What—what are you doing here?”

“Official business,” he said smoothly, brushing past her into the foyer before she could object. His cologne hit her first—sharp, chemical, suffocating. “The Immigration Review Board has taken a keen interest in your… whirlwind romance. I’m simply here to ensure everything is above board.”

Brienne froze, gripping the doorframe. This is it. This is the part where it all collapses.

“Brienne?” Jaime’s voice floated down the stairs. She looked up to see him leaning on the banister, hair tousled, shirt unbuttoned at the collar like he’d just rolled out of bed. His lazy grin froze the instant he saw who was standing in the foyer.

“Frey.” The name was a curse on Jaime’s tongue.

“Mr. Lannister,” Frey said, all oily politeness. “Charming as ever.”

Jaime descended slowly, one hand in his pocket, eyes locked on the man like he might draw a sword if they weren’t standing in Selwyn Tarth’s tastefully nautical foyer. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

“Oh, don’t mind me,” Frey said, setting his briefcase on the console table with a snap. “I’m simply here to observe. Spend a few days with the happy couple. Confirm that your marriage isn’t, shall we say… fraudulent.”

Brienne’s stomach sank to the floor. A few days? With him in the house?

Jaime’s jaw tightened, but his smile didn’t waver. “You’ll find everything perfectly genuine. Brienne and I are madly in love.”

“Madly,” Frey echoed, voice dry as bone. “Well then. I’ll just make myself comfortable.”

From the living room, Selwyn appeared, broad grin brightening his face before it faltered mid-step. His eyes darted between the stranger in the foyer and the stiff line of his daughter’s shoulders.

“Who is this, Brienne?” he asked, the warmth in his voice edged with the faintest thread of unease.

Before she could answer, Frey stepped forward, hand outstretched. “Walder Frey, sir. Immigration Review Board. A pleasure.”

Selwyn shook his hand automatically, but his brow furrowed. “Immigration? Here? That seems… out of place, doesn’t it?” He chuckled softly, trying to mask his surprise, but his gaze lingered on Frey like a man quietly sorting through a dozen unspoken questions.

After a beat, he forced a polite smile. “But if the government’s suddenly interested in my daughter’s love life, I suppose she’s finally made it big.” His eyes flicked to Brienne with an affectionate twinkle. “We’re just happy you’re home, sweetheart. It’s been too long since this house had a reason to be this lively.”

Brienne wanted to melt through the floor. Jaime shot her a look—equal parts brace yourself and trust me—before turning his grin back on Frey.

And just like that, the game had changed.

The walls of Evenfall closed in tighter, the air thicker. Every glance, every touch, every word she and Jaime exchanged from here on out would be under Frey’s microscope.

Ticking clock. No way out.

And Brienne Tarth had never been more certain that disaster was inevitable.

_______________

Breakfast with Walder Frey was about as pleasant as swallowing glass.

The long table was spread with Selwyn’s usual weekend feast—fried fishcakes, fresh bread, eggs, and enough bacon to feed an army. The Tarth cousins dug in happily, oblivious to Frey sitting at the far end, notebook in hand, eyes darting between Brienne and Jaime like a hawk cataloging prey.
“So,” Frey drawled, spearing a slice of melon with unnecessary menace, “tell me—how did you two meet?”

Brienne nearly choked on her coffee. Jaime, smooth as silk, reached over and patted her back. “Publishing gala,” he said easily. “I was cornered by a hedge fund bore, and Brienne swooped in like a knight to rescue me.”

Brienne blinked. That was…alarmingly close to the truth. “Right,” she said stiffly, trying not to glance at her father, who looked misty-eyed.

Frey hummed, scribbling something. “And what’s your favorite thing about each other?”

Selwyn perked up. “Oh, yes, do tell!”

Brienne shot Jaime a death glare, silently daring him to smirk his way through this one. But Jaime didn’t hesitate. “Her honesty,” he said simply. “She doesn’t flatter, doesn’t pander. When Brienne tells you the truth, you know it’s real.”

The words landed heavier than she expected, softening the steel in her chest. She forced herself to look away before anyone noticed the heat climbing her neck.

Frey’s pen scratched. “And you, Miss Tarth? What’s your favorite thing about Mr. Lannister?”

She opened her mouth, ready with something sharp, but what came out instead was: “He’s smug.”

The table went silent. Jaime’s brow arched.

She scrambled, cheeks burning. “I mean—he’s infuriatingly smug, all the time, about everything. But…he’s also right. More often than he should be.”

To her horror, the corners of Jaime’s mouth curved into the smallest, most self-satisfied smile.

Frey narrowed his eyes. “Fine. Then let’s test this love story. Lightning round.”

He leaned forward, pen poised. “What’s Mr. Lannister’s favorite food?”

“Lemon cake,” Brienne answered without thinking.

Jaime’s head snapped toward her. “How—?”

“You order it every time it’s on the menu,” she muttered, defensive now. “And you complain if it’s not tart enough.”

His stunned expression was almost worth the mortification.

“Very good,” Frey said, unimpressed. “And what annoys him most?”

“Waiting,” Brienne said flatly. “Especially in traffic. He drums his fingers on the steering wheel like a metronome from hell.”

Jaime’s mouth opened, then closed again. He looked faintly betrayed.

Frey smirked. “And you, Mr. Lannister—what’s Miss Tarth’s most irritating habit?”

Jaime didn’t even pause. “She bites her lip when she’s nervous.”

Brienne froze. Her teeth were on her lip right now.

“And she blushes,” Jaime added, voice low, “when she pretends she’s not.”

The room tilted. Her cousins tittered. Her father looked delighted. Brienne wanted to crawl under the table and never emerge.

But Frey just jotted notes, unbothered, like he hadn’t just exposed something that made her pulse trip over itself. “Hmm. Convincing, I’ll give you that. But I’ll be watching. People slip up when the act gets too heavy.”

He snapped his notebook shut, the sound like a gavel.

Selwyn chuckled weakly, trying to cut through the tension. “Well, this is all very… thorough, Mr. Frey.” His genial tone wavered as his eyes drifted toward the man’s badge, the official gleam of it catching the morning light. “I must admit, I’ve never known immigration officers to take such a… personal interest in young couples. Is this really how they do it now?”

Frey didn’t look up from his notes. “Oh, it’s routine. Especially when one half of the couple’s visa has expired.”

The clatter of cutlery stopped cold.

Selwyn’s expression froze mid-smile. “I’m sorry—what?”

Frey finally looked up, eyes glinting with satisfaction. “Mr. Lannister’s work visa technically expired last month. We’re simply ensuring all his… commitments are legitimate.” His tone was mild, but there was nothing kind in it.

The silence that followed was sharp enough to cut. Selwyn’s gaze flicked between Jaime and Brienne, something dark and uncertain shadowing his usually open face. The doubt from earlier bloomed into something heavier—a deep, protective suspicion he couldn’t yet name.

“I see,” he said slowly, his voice gentling, though the warmth had drained from it. “Well, of course, we want everything to be… in order.”

Jaime met Selwyn’s eyes evenly, the faintest edge of defiance in his voice. “It will be.”

Selwyn nodded, but his hand had gone still on his coffee cup. He smiled when Brienne glanced his way, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. Behind it, his thoughts were moving fast—why had his daughter never mentioned this? And what kind of man had walked into his daughter’s life and brought government eyes with him.

Frey, satisfied with the silence he’d left behind, reached for another slice of melon. “Now, about your wedding date…”

Across the table, Selwyn watched them both—the diplomat’s mask fixed in place, but the doubt behind it sharp as the sea wind.

Brienne exhaled shakily, trying not to meet her father’s eyes. While Jaime reached for his coffee, steady as stone, but she could see the muscle ticking in his jaw.

She gripped her coffee cup so tightly she was sure it would crack. And Jaime, infuriatingly, lounged back in his chair as if he hadn’t just knocked her entire world sideways with a handful of careless truths.

And gods help her, she didn’t know which was worse—how much she hated him for noticing, or how much she wanted him to keep noticing.

_______________

The scrape of a chair was the only warning before Robb slid into the empty seat across from them, a plate already in hand courtesy of a helpful cousin. He’d been visiting Evenfall for days now—catching up with Selwyn, spending time with Brienne—and his presence at the breakfast table was as natural as the sea breeze through the open windows.

“Morning,” he said, easy as anything, though his eyes lingered a beat too long on Brienne’s flushed face—and then slid, cool as steel, to where Jaime’s hand still rested on the back of her chair.

“Stark,” Jaime drawled, not bothering to disguise the bite in it.

“Lannister.” Robb’s smile was all politeness, but his jaw was tight.

Frey, delighted at the new complication, leaned forward. “Oh, excellent. Another perspective. And you are…?”

“Robb Stark,” Robb said, shaking his hand. “Old family friend.”

“Very old friend,” Jaime murmured, loud enough to carry.

Brienne’s elbow found his ribs, but Jaime didn’t so much as flinch.

“Ex-boyfriend,” Frey clarified gleefully, pen scratching across his pad. “How fascinating.”

Brienne groaned. “That’s not—”

“Ancient history,” Jaime cut in smoothly, his smile sharp as a blade. “Brienne and I have moved on. Together.”

The weight of his hand on her shoulder pressed the point.

Robb’s eyes narrowed, though his smile stayed fixed. “Of course. And I’m happy for you, Brie. Truly.” His gaze flicked back to Jaime, daring him. “Still, old habits die hard. I remember when you hated bacon—used to pass it to me at breakfast.”

Brienne froze, fork halfway to her mouth.

Jaime’s smirk widened. “She eats it now. With gusto. Guess people change when they’re with the right partner.”

The words hit like a gauntlet thrown. Robb bristled.

Selwyn, oblivious to the crackling tension, clapped his hands. “Wonderful! All my favorite people around one table.”

Frey ignored him, gaze darting between the three of them like a predator scenting blood. “Yes. Very… educational.”

Robb leaned forward slightly, voice pitched for Brienne but sharp enough for Jaime to hear. “You don’t have to perform for me, you know. Not everything has to be for show.”

Her pulse jumped. She shot him a warning glance, but Jaime was faster.

“Funny,” Jaime said lightly, “I was just thinking the same about you.”

Their smiles clashed like swords.

“Brienne,” Robb said, his gaze softening as it shifted to her. “Can we talk? Alone.”

“She’s not going anywhere,” Jaime cut in smoothly, draping an arm around her shoulders with theatrical ease. Brienne went stiff, but Jaime only tightened his grip, flashing Frey—who had lingered across the table, notebook ready—a grin so blinding it could’ve powered Robb’s turbines.

“Right, sweetheart?” Jaime said.

Brienne shot him a glare sharp enough to cut steel, but Frey’s beady little eyes were on her. With effort, she plastered on what she hoped passed for a loving smile. “Right.”

Robb’s mouth flattened. “A word. Now.”

He didn’t wait for her agreement, just strode out to the back deck, shoulders bristling. Brienne followed, muttering a curse under her breath.

The moment the sliding door shut, Robb rounded on her. “What the hell is this?”

She froze. “What do you mean?”

He gave her a look—the same one he used when they were kids and she tried to bluff her way through a bad hand of cards. “Don’t play dumb. You. Him. This.”

Her pulse skipped. For one reckless second, she thought he might have figured everything out. But then Robb shook his head, disgusted. “He’s arrogant, selfish, smug—everything you hate. And now suddenly he’s your fiancé?”

Brienne swallowed hard. “People change.”

“Not him.” Robb’s voice was low, urgent. “I don’t know what game he’s playing, but you deserve better. So much better.”

Through the glass, Jaime lounged in the kitchen, arms folded, watching them with an expression that was half challenge, half smug amusement.

Brienne’s chest tightened. She hated him. Gods, she hated him. But the thought of Jaime—him—when Robb said she deserved better…For one impossible heartbeat, the only face that came to mind was Jaime’s.

“Robb,” she said, forcing steel into her tone, “I can take care of myself.”

He studied her for a long moment, frustration etched in every line of his face. “Then prove it. Because I swear, Brienne, if he hurts you—”

The sliding door opened. Jaime leaned out, casual as ever. “Everything all right out here? Or is the knight in shining Patagonia trying to rescue you again?”

Robb bristled. Brienne stepped forward, blocking them both. “We’re fine,” she snapped.

Jaime’s gaze flicked to her, sharp as a blade. For a second, something unspoken passed between them—defiance, warning, maybe even a question.

Then he smirked, retreating back inside, leaving Brienne torn between throttling him and… something far more dangerous.

Because if Robb Stark could see the cracks, how much longer before Walder Frey did too?