Chapter Text
“Happy fucking Christmas,” Jaime Lannister thought to himself, pulling his suit jacket tightly across his chest in a futile attempt to keep the biting wind at bay. It wasn’t quite five o’clock, but the pale, winter sun had already started to set, and a cold darkness was slowly seeping in from the shadows, the chill settling in Jaime’s bones and setting his teeth on edge. He could smell a faint sharpness in the air -- the ominous portent of an approaching storm. Shivering, he hunched his shoulders, trying to keep the cold off of his neck, and increased his pace in the vague hope that he could make it back to his flat before the skies opened up. If only he had remembered to grab his coat and his car keys before storming out of his sister’s house, he wouldn’t be in this godforsaken predicament. But by the time Jaime had realised his mistake, he had already been half-way through his dramatic exit. And at that point, nothing could have compelled him to turn around and face Cersei again -- not even the prospect of being warm and dry.
His shoe caught on the uneven pavement, and Jaime came to an abrupt stop, wincing at the burning pain in his heel. His Ferragamo dress shoes were quite literally rubbing a hole in the back of his foot. The shoes, although gorgeously hand-crafted, were not, in fact, made for walking. However, Jaime’s phone was currently sitting in his coat pocket back at his sister’s house (along with his keys and wallet), so the option of calling for a car to take him across town to his flat was out. No, Jaime realised with a sigh, it was just him, his well-cut but extremely thin suit jacket, his brand new Ferragamos, and very long walk in the very wretched cold. Grimacing, Jaime bent down and adjusted his sock which was already wet with something -- blood maybe? Fabulous. What a wonderful Christmas Eve.
Jaime had known that the holidays would be disastrous. Of course they would be disastrous. In the Lannister family, Christmas had always been an utter and complete shitshow. So why should this year be any different? In fact, when Cersei had first invited Jaime to her annual Baratheon Christmas Fête, Jaime had laughed in her face. He knew exactly how the stupid party would play out. Robert, Cersei’s husband, would get drunk and then behave inappropriately with every member of the catering staff he could get his fat, ruddy paws on. Cersei would get drunk and then publicly humiliate Robert and whomever else happened to be within striking distance. Tywin, Jaime’s father, would not get drunk. But he would watch all this happen and then blame Jaime for: a) not keeping his sister in check, b) not living up to his Lannister name and reputation, and c) not being married with children and ready to assume the vast “head of household” duties once Tywin ultimately passed from this earth into the great beyond. Jaime would then make a scathing remark about how Tywin would never truly die since he was, in fact, a member of the undead already. And then, in the pièce de résistance of the whole bloody evening, Tywin would disinherit Jaime -- for the millionth fucking time.
Oh no, Jaime knew exactly how the whole affair would go down, and there was no sodding way he was going to be a part of it.
But then Cersei had mentioned that Tyrion might show up to the fête, and Jaime… well, Jaime had caved, hadn’t he?
Jaime hadn’t seen Tyrion for going on two years; and he missed his little brother acutely. Although there was a seven-year age difference between Jaime and Tyrion, the two had always been close -- ever since Tyrion’s infancy when the imposing, Ironborn night nurse, tired of Tyrion’s squalling, had shoved the colicky newborn into Jaime’s arms and had gone out to have a cigarette or twelve. Once in Jaime’s embrace, Tyrion had instantly quieted, looking up at his big brother with mismatched, trusting eyes. And for the first time in his life, Jaime had felt wanted. Really wanted.
Ever since then, it had been Jaime and Tyrion against the world. Honestly, Tyrion was the only person in Jaime’s fucked-up family whom Jaime trusted implicitly. Oh, despite their faults and their charmingly understated toxicity, Jaime loved his father and his twin sister. However, he didn’t trust them as far as he could throw them. No, it was Tyrion to whom Jaime turned when he was wracked with self-doubt. It was Tyrion who talked Jaime down off the ledge after one of Cersei’s venomous attacks. It was Tyrion who took Jaime’s side when Father laid into him and called him stupid and useless. So when Tyrion disappeared without even saying goodbye, Jaime found himself in very real mourning.
And Tyrion had, for lack of a better word, disappeared. Gone without a trace. When Jaime had finally overcome his initial anger at Tyrion’s departure, he had tried to discover the reason why Tyrion had left King’s Landing so suddenly. Tywin had vaguely intimated that Tyrion had left to travel; but that made no sense at all. Tyrion hadn’t said anything about traveling to Jaime. And there was no way Tyrion would have left for any extended period of time without saying goodbye. Add to that the fact that he was no longer answering his phone or his email, and the whole thing was highly suspicious.
However, no one else in the family seemed to be worried. Jaime’s father had waved it off as another of Tyrion’s ridiculous schemes -- like the time he had run away as a child and tried to join a traveling circus. Cersei couldn’t be bothered to care. She had never gotten along with Tyrion anyway. No great loss if he disappeared for a few years. But Jaime was heartsick. He missed Tyrion. He missed Tyrion badly. He was desperate for any word from his little brother. So desperate, in fact, that Jaime was apparently willing to sacrifice his good sense for the slight chance of seeing him.
Yes, when Cersei had mentioned that Tyrion was coming to the Baratheon Christmas Fête, Jaime should have been suspicious. But he wasn’t known as the stupidest Lannister for nothing. So he had gamely gone to the hideously lavish holiday bash. He had gamely choked down the revolting, signature peppermint martinis and made small talk with the obsequious Freys. He had gamely forced a smile at Robert’s sexist jokes and pretended to be interested in Renly Baratheon’s hyperbolic stories about his trip to Dorne with his most recent boyfriend. Hell, Jaime had even gamely stood by and watched his sister knock back cup after cup of potent, mulled wine until the careful, public filter that usually kept her cruelty in check was shattered to dust. He had done all that on the thin hope that he would get to see his little brother. And it had been worth it for the chance of seeing Tyrion -- right up until the moment that Cersei, cruelty filter long gone, had publicly called out Jaime for being so gullible and told him that: no, of course, Tyrion wasn’t coming. He had never planned on coming. In fact, she had no idea where “the creepy, little imp” even was. However, she knew that Jaime wouldn’t come to the party unless she made up some ridiculous cover story to get him there. And he needn’t bother complaining about it to Father. Father had given her the go ahead to use Tyrion as bait, since Jaime was being such a ridiculous prat and ruining the family’s public image by sulking about his stupid baby brother who obviously didn’t give a good goddamn about Jaime because he had left without even saying goodbye. And god, it was painful to see Jaime acting so stupid about the whole thing. Why Father didn’t write-off Jaime the way he had written-off Tyrion, she couldn’t even begin to fathom. It was too bad that Father had such a medievally sexist world view -- too bad that she hadn’t been born a boy. She had more common sense, family loyalty, and strength of character than her two brothers combined. She should be Father’s rightful heir -- not dumb and dumber -- the drunk and the fool -- the imp and the idiot. All she was missing was a cock -- although, considering Jaime’s tendency towards crippling emotional break-downs and downright PMS, perhaps a cock wasn’t needed after all ... And then Jaime had lost it -- creating his own public spectacle in front of God and nation (and a smugly smiling Varys in a fucking snowman jumper), before storming out into the cold, sans his coat and car keys.
The whole thing was a horribly humiliating mess -- or, as they called it in the Lannister family: a typical Christmas Eve.
Jaime shook his head to rid himself of the vile memory. God, the sooner the holidays were over, the better for everyone.
A car rumbled past, and Jaime looked up, finally noticing that the affluence of Cersei and Robert’s neighbourhood had long ago given way to bleak impoverishment. Gone were the beautifully manicured gardens and carefully maintained houses. The streets in this section of King’s Landing could barely even be called streets with how badly they were in need of repair. The buildings were cramped, crowding in on each other tightly like bad teeth in a too-small mouth -- every other shopfront unoccupied or closed off with sheets of plywood. Occasionally Christmas lights flashed from a widow or an odd wreath of synthetic greenery marked the door of a shop or a restaurant, but the street was mostly flat and gray -- which ultimately suited Jaime’s mood better than the gaudy, celebratory displays of Cersei and her neighbours.
Out of the corner of his eye, Jaime noticed a crumbling church, the faded letters of its marquee sloppily spelling out the message: “May the magic of Christmas bring love and peace to you and to the world.”
“Hah!” he thought bitterly. The magic of Christmas! Fuck’s sake! When were people going to finally realise that Christmas was just about the least loving, least peaceful, and least magical time of the year? Next year he should go away -- go very far away -- to where they didn’t even acknowledge the sodding holiday. Maybe he should just disappear like Tyrion had.
“Bloody hell!” a crash came from across the street; and, startled, Jaime turned to see a youngish boy staring dolefully down at a broken box, its brightly coloured contents scattered across the pavement and rolling into the street. The boy was precariously balancing another box on his left hip, and three more boxes were lying on the pavement next to him.
Jaime frowned in sympathy and made a move to continue on. However, before he could, the boy looked up and caught Jaime’s eye.
“Mind your business and steady on,” Jaime thought to himself, slightly increasing his pace, trying not to stare. He needed to look away before it was too late, and he was stuck helping a stranger pick up … well, what was it? … trash, perhaps? Gaudy Christmas decorations? Plastic waste from a Lego factory?
Before he could avert his gaze, however, the boy gave Jaime a sheepish smile, and Jaime groaned. Argh, too late! He couldn’t pretend that he hadn’t seen the lad drop the box now. No, Jaime was going to have to go and offer aid to the boy or come off as a right git on Christmas fucking Eve. Wonderful. This night just kept getting better and better.
Sighing plaintively at the unfairness of it all, Jaime looked cautiously down the road before hobbling across the street. Was it too dramatic to wish for a quick death at the hands of lorry driver? Anything to put him out of his misery and stop his blood from freezing in his veins. God, his feet were bloody well killing him too. Perhaps there was an extra pair of shoes in the garishly coloured rubbish the boy had spilled.
By the time Jaime had crossed the street, the boy was on his hands and knees collecting the cheaply made ornaments and Christmas baubles and jamming them back into the box.
Jaime bent to help him.
“Th..thanks,” the boy stuttered, looking at Jaime gratefully. “I don’t know what happened. It just slipped out of my hand. It’s so cold, my fingers are frozen.”
Jaime just nodded and continued to silently gather the Christmas detritus. Up close, the boy was older than Jaime had initially thought, although his soft features and tattered clothing made him seem younger. He had that starved, pale cast to him that made Jaime suddenly think of Tyrion. And before he could think the better of it, Jaime found himself offering further assistance. “Do you need help carrying these boxes inside?”
“Ah, cheers,” the boy said, relief colouring his features. “That’d be great, yeah.”
“No problem at all,” Jaime said graciously. It would delay him, but it would be good to get out of the cold for a brief moment. Perhaps his fingers would regain feeling. Perhaps someone inside would offer him a cup of something hot.
The boy reached over and handed Jaime one of the dust covered boxes. “Are you sure you’ve got the time?” he said, suddenly apprehensive. “I’d hate to keep you from your holiday party.” He glanced at Jaime’s attire. “Dirty work, this. And it is Christmas Eve.”
“You’re not keeping me from anything,” Jaime replied curtly, now completely consumed with the prospect of a hot drink. “I’ve actually just come from a Christmas party. And believe me, I’d much rather carry boxes in the cold than swill terrible, Christmas cocktails with pretentious toffs who care more about their clothes than the right shit that comes out of their mouths.”
The boy’s expression suddenly lit up, as if he had only just realised something. “Oh, are you here from the Christmas party on the hill?” he asked eagerly. “The big Baratheon bash?”
Jaime frowned puzzled. “Yes.” How did the boy know about Cersei’s Christmas party? With his dirty jeans and tattered jacket, the boy looked like he didn’t have two stags to rub together. Not quite one of the posh bootlicks one would expect to see at any of Cersei’s pompous soirèes.
“Right on! We’ve been expecting you. God, she’ll be so happy to see you.”
“She will?” Jaime questioned, suddenly feeling like he had stepped into an alternate dimension -- one in which he did good deeds and people were happy to see him.
“God, yes. She’s been wondering where you were.” The boy lowered his voice. “Honestly, you couldn’t have come at a better time. She’s a bit … uh, unhinged at the moment.” He grimaced, his eyes apprehensive. “Only -- don’t tell her I said that.”
“No, of course not,” Jaime frowned. Who could the boy possibly be referring to? Jaime could think of quite a few people who fit the “unhinged” bit (his sister being first and foremost) but not many who would be happy to see him. However before Jaime could ask for clarification, the boy stepped through the double doors into the dimly lit, musty building.
Following him, Jaime was immediately struck with an acrid smell -- a combination of dust, mold, and a sharp, antiseptic odour that Jaime couldn’t quite place. He frowned, wrinkling his nose. However, smell aside, it was gloriously warm inside the building. He sighed, letting the wall of heat slowly relax his bunched muscles.
The doorway led into a large, square room, which was relatively empty aside from a chaotic jumble in its center. In the middle of the room, a huge fir tree lay on its side looking like a soldier fallen in battle. A tower of cardboard boxes marked “tree” surrounded it. And in the corner of the room, a twisted pile of coloured Christmas lights were blinking sadly -- intermittently illuminating the cracked plaster of the walls with their artificial brightness.
Jamie paused, perplexed. He had thought he had seen the worst that Christmas had to offer when he had first set eyes on Cersei’s homage to her Lannister heritage -- a horrible, blood-red, synthetic Christmas tree decorated with grotesque golden lion ornaments all in various stages of roaring. However this room, with its tragic Christmas tableau set in the middle of what looked vaguely like the kill room of a slaughterhouse was giving Cersei a very real run for her money. He turned to ask the boy what this sad building actually was. However before Jamie could open his mouth, the boy turned and ducked his head toward a doorway.
“She’s just in here a bit. Follow me.” He lead Jaime through a darkly twisting hallway. “Brienne!” the boy called. “I have the boxes from Mr. Stark. Where do you want them?”
“In here, Pod!” a voice called out.
Pod nodded to Jaime and slipped into the open doorway.
Jaime followed, curious to see this unhinged woman who was apparently expecting him.
She turned when they entered, and Jaime was momentarily struck still. The woman was tall -- insanely tall. Taller than Jaime, and Jaime was not a short man by any measure. She was dressed in ripped jeans, an old, blue, KLU jumper, and battered trainers. And she looked, Jaime thought assessing her critically, like she could very well take him in a fight -- easily.
As if sensing his glance, the woman caught Jaime’s eye and tilted her head, a messy shock of white blonde hair falling into her eyes.
The boy set the boxes he was carrying down with a thump and then reached out to take the ones from Jaime’s arms. “There’s a whole pile of them,” he explained, and the tall woman turned her attention back to him. “Mr. Stark wasn’t sure what you would need, and Mrs. Stark was tending to the little ones so he couldn’t ask her. He made me take everything, just in case.”
“Thanks, Pod,” the giantess said, her smile tired and harried. “We’ll sort through them and figure out what we need. You can just put them in here for now.” She gestured to an empty corner of the room, the carpet stained and fraying. Finally, she turned back again to Jaime. “And who is this?”
The boy shrugged, already on his way back outside to finish unloading the truck. At the woman’s question, he turned to Jaime and gave him an inquisitive look. “Dunno exactly. Came from the Christmas Party up on the hill. Thought he was the one you were talking about earlier.” And with a last glance at Jaime and a mumbled, “Cheers, mate,” the boy left Jaime alone with the woman.
The woman cocked her head and frowned, gazing at Jaime quizzically. He watched her eyes widen, as she took in his impeccably tailored suit, his expensive haircut, his handsome face.
Not a stranger to being checked-out by women, Jaime gave her his most charming smile, his eyes twinkling rakishly. She wasn’t what he usually went for, but she was remarkably tall and her legs did go on for days. He cocked an eyebrow. “Hiya,” he purred.
At that, the woman snorted out a laugh and shook her head. “Let me guess. Renly couldn’t be arsed to come tonight, so he sent you in his stead.”
Jaime’s cocksure smile faltered, his mouth dropping open to gape at her in disbelief. Renly? Renly Baratheon? He had just left Renly at the stupid Baratheon Christmas party drunk off of his ass on wassail and sloppily making out with Loras behind the crèche of the life-sized nativity scene which Cersei had set up in the ostentatiously enormous ballroom (no room at the Inn, his ass). Surely Renly wasn’t supposed to be here at this … well, this place that looked very much like it could double as a crime scene. What was going on? And who was this ludicrously giant woman who seemed to be laughing at him? Laughing at him?!
Taking in his frowning silence, the woman gave him an apologetic smile. “No worries,” she said gently, her voice soothing. “I didn’t mean to make it sound like you are not wanted.” She gave him a reassuring nod. “You are wanted -- desperately wanted.”
Jaime’s grin was back at that, but the woman hardly noticed. “Frankly, I don’t know how we’re going to pull this off now that Robb and Jeyne have called in sick,” she continued, looking around at the boxes littering the room. Suddenly she glanced at Jaime’s attire frowning. She stepped forward, reaching out one long finger to skim over the lapel of his suit jacket.
Jaime startled, involuntarily stepping back, but she didn’t seem to notice.
“I’m a bit concerned about you ruining your clothes, though. Bloody Renly didn’t warn you that you’d be working in the kitchen did he?”
“Well, no,” Jaime sputtered. Shit. He should end this now. Explain that he had no idea what any of this was and that Renly had, in fact, not sent him. And that the last thing he wanted to do after the day that he had just had was to work in a bloody kitchen in a building that was giving him major flashbacks to that decaying hostel in Essos that he had stayed in when he was twenty-one and on the tail end of a very bad drug trip. However, the giantess had now latched on to his arm and was deftly shepherding him into what appeared to be a kitchen. And then she was rifling through drawers trying to find him an apron and gesturing at him to take off his suit jacket. And then, without giving it a second thought, Jaime was taking off said suit jacket. And then she was putting the apron on him and reaching around him, her body entirely too close to his, to tie the ties, and Jaime was frozen in place and just taking it all in -- the smell of roasted meat and something savory, and the laughter from the corner where two young girls were chopping vegetables, and the flickering of the fluorescent tube lights that gave the room a slightly murderous glow, and the woman’s hands, warm and firm and occasionally brushing his lower back, as she tied his apron strings. His apron strings? Hell, Jaime didn’t wear aprons. And he certainly didn’t work in kitchens. And there was no fucking way he was a friend of Renly Baratheon. And he needed to say something before ...
“I’m sorry. I never caught your name.”
Jaime shook himself out of his reverie, looking up into the woman’s startling blue eyes. Jesus Christ they were blue! Was it her jumper making them so blue? “Uh … Jaime. My name’s Jaime.”
“Jaime,” she nodded, extending her hand out to him. “I’m Brienne.” She smiled. “God, I am so glad that you are here. I was fearing the worst before you came.” She ran a hand over her face tiredly.
“You know this is my first year running things. Cat usually does it. Only this year, her little ones are all sick with the flu and so she’s asked me. I, of course, told her no because I am not a masochist. But then she put Rickon on the phone -- he’s her youngest -- and had him appeal to me in his little, feverishly hoarse voice. And god, I am just a giant sucker for children and animals and …” She shook her head sheepishly. “Well, before I even knew it, I found myself in charge of the whole damn show.”
“What exactly is the show?” Jaime asked, looking around him. He noticed her puzzled expression. “Uh … Renly didn’t give me much more than the basic details.” The lie came smoothly, before he had time to think it through. Wait, what was he doing? He didn’t have time to get involved in this nonsense. He still had a long walk home and an evening of some very serious drinking ahead of him.
Brienne grimaced. “Bloody Renly,” she muttered. “No. He means well. He just has horrible follow-through.” She gave Jaime an exasperated look. “But then, as his mate, I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that.”
Jaime nodded dumbly.
“No,” Brienne continued. “Our mission, if you choose to accept it, is to host a Christmas Eve celebration for the current residents of the shelter.” She waved her arm around, and Jaime noticed a crookedly hung sign over the sink: Kingsroad Shelter: Solace for the Poor Struggler. Ah, it was a homeless shelter then. That explained its horribly tragic condition.
“Most of them are homeless veterans from the wars,” Brienne continued. “They served their country honourably; and as a reward, their country turned them out onto the streets -- no homes, no medical care, no governmental support to speak of. It’s utterly shameful.” Bright red spots coloured Brienne’s cheeks, and her eyes flashed angrily. She looked at Jaime’s confused expression and caught herself. “Sorry. I can get a bit wound up about the injustice of it all.” She took a deep breath, marshaling her composure. “Anyway we try to give them a happy Christmas. Try to provide a hot meal, a present or two, and a bit of holiday cheer such as it is.” She glanced around the dingy kitchen, her expression worried but resolved. “That said, we have until seven to get this place decorated, the Christmas tree up, the presents wrapped, and a holiday dinner with all the trimmings cooked and served.”
When Jaime raised his eyebrows incredulously, Brienne sighed. “Some might say it’s an impossible feat; but then miracles have been known to happen. At least that’s what Cat said when I told her I was far too short-staffed to pull this off. Of course, you will also notice that Cat is not, in fact, here; so if this proves to be a massive cock-up, it’s all on me.” She gave him self-deprecating grin, and Jaime couldn’t help grinning back.
“Then it seems we best not cock things up,” he replied, before he could help himself. Well, apparently he was going to go through with this charade. Perhaps the awful peppermint martinis from the party hadn’t entirely worn off.
Brienne exhaled noisily, her face taking on a look of relieved gratitude. “Right. Thanks, uh … Jaime.” She smiled, looking at him contemplatively. “You know, it’s strange. I don’t remember Renly ever mentioning a friend named Jaime.”
“Strange,” Jaime agreed, before giving her a knowing smile. “But then, you know bloody Renly.”
Suddenly, Jaime was filled with a strange sense of purpose -- a purpose that he hadn’t experienced in a very, very long time. He would help this tall, intimidating woman. Help her put on a happy Christmas for those who needed it most. What else did he have to do tonight? Go home to his empty flat and drink himself into a stupor? No, he was needed here -- desperately needed, Brienne had said. Hell, Jaime couldn’t remember the last time he had been desperately needed … well, by anyone really.
He turned towards the counters which were piled high with crates of veg and boxes and tins and great loaves of bread. “OK,” he said. “What should I do?”