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janie_tangerine“This,” Jaime tells Bronn as he downs an excellent glass of bourbon that he’s pretty sure costs an arm, but given how much money he has just won at blackjack he couldn’t care less, never mind that if anything at least he can certainly afford it, “is the best idea you’ve ever had.”
“Well, sure as fuck I agree with it,” Bronn says as he downs his half of Jack Daniels too. Well, Jaime reasons, of course he’d agree with it, since they’re in Las Vegas and Jaime’s paying for the entire trip, but then again after what happened a week ago —
Rewind: a week ago, the Sun ran a twenty-pages long exclusive breaking news story about Cersei’s engagement to Rhaegar Targaryen, which apparently has been in the works for months.
Months during which she had never hinted at anything of the kind when she was with him, which meant that the breaking news story felt like the coldest shower in existence. Jaime had called her first thing asking for explanations, and she laughed the way you do when someone tells you something you find so hilarious you could weep, patiently explained him that she couldn’t give up the chance of merging with Targaryen Corp., never mind that apparently she’s had a crush on Rhaegar since they were kids and Father brought them along to Aerys’s insufferable Sunday dinners during which Jaime’s only salvation was that they put him at the end of the table to make sure Tyrion behaved himself and so they could basically avoid the entire circus.
Never mind that such a wedding would mend the fracture between them which was his damned fault, because of course it’s his fault if when his father forced him to go for an internship in Aerys’s PA department he had realized that the guy was fucking embezzling half of the money and stealing from about anyone in the company, and he couldn’t exactly not go to the police with it. Rhaegar hadn’t even hated him for it, he merely said that he hoped he could fix things when he took his father’s place, but his father never really forgave him for that.
Because, now he learned it, it brought his plans for Cersei and Rhaegar’s marriage to a halt.
Obviously.
But now it’s being fixed, so it doesn’t matter anymore, and anyway, as Cersei so eloquently put it, he really didn’t think they were going to last forever now, did he?
Well.
He doesn’t know about that.
But she was the one telling that all along, since he can bloody damn well remember, and let’s just say that he has wholly forgotten the next five hours after that call.
Then Bronn had showed up because Tyrion sent him, being rightfully worried, had taken a look at him and at the five empty bottles of whatever he had in his liquor cabinet, forced him to dunk his head in a basin of icy water and told him that he needed a distraction.
“Yeah, and what do you suggest?” Jaime had asked.
Bronn had stared at him and shrugged. “I’ve heard going to Las Vegas and wasting a bunch of money at the first casino you find works wonders.”
Somehow, that had seemed an entirely reasonable solution.
So Jaime had went online after sobering up, bought two tickets one-way — he can buy one to go back to the UK whenever he feels like going — and told Bronn that they had their plane in six hours.
“Shit,” Bronn had said, “you really did that?”
“Sure,” Jaime had shrugged. “Never been to Vegas anyway. Why the fuck not. Not sleeping for a week seems like a good idea.”
So: they took the plane, slept the jet-lag off the entire first day after Jaime spent a bunch of money on the first four-star hotel that looked halfway decent on Tripadvisor, then they found a casino in the early afternoon.
Apparently, Jaime has a knack for blackjack and Bronn has a knack for poker, so in the span of hours they gained back enough money to cover for the tickets and the hotel room for a week, not that he needed them, but that was nice.
“Great,” Bronn had said. “Now I think we should try the bar around the corner. And the next one after.”
“Shit,” Jaime had replied, “you know what, I’m so glad Tyrion befriended you when he did.”
“I’m flattered. So, you buying?”
“Sure,” he had said.
Now they’re at the second bar, he’s pleasurably buzzed and honestly, he’s had two whiskeys on the rocks and one bourbon, there’s going to be space for a lot more before he starts getting affected, and fuck, Americans sure as fuck know how to party and to sell excellent alcohol around here. Also, it’s still what, seven PM? Fuck it, he has until dawn to get drunk to his heart’s delight, and if he has missing calls from both his father and Cersei, well, he’s not going to take them.
He asks for another round, then clinks it against Bronn’s glass and downs another half.
Then his cellphone buzzes.
He takes it out, opens it — his Facebook notifications are exploding, and it’s even private. Damn it. He opens it to turn them off, and of course he ends up opening the app, where a picture of Cersei and Rhaegar chastely kissing in their father’s living room shows up like a fucking punch in the face.
His good mood disappears into thin air, and he sighs as he decides that he’s done with at least feeling miserable.
He mutes Cersei — unfriending her would be a colossally bad idea, he has the gut feeling — and turns the notifications off. Better.
“You know,” Bronn says, sounding like he’s still completely sober after staring at his now-dejected face for a while, “if you really wanted to give your cunt of a sister a proper, giant fuck you, you should find someone else to french and post that on Facebook.”
“You don’t even have one,” Jaime replies, even if he has a feeling that’s not the point, but he’s tipsy and his brain isn’t exactly running at all cylinders. “What would you know?”
“Please,” he says, “you people are on that hellish thing for the entire fucking day and you just started looking like some sort of bloody sad drenched kitten the moment you opened it, if she’s like you — and I know she’s worse when it comes to posturing on social media — she’d see it. And I have a feeling she’d hate seein’ you with anyone else than the contrary.”
“And how would you know that?”
Bronn sends him the least impressed look Jaime can ever remember seeing on him. “I’ve been around your lot for some ten years, I think I learned how you all tick and honestly, she’s the most fucking unhinged out of the three of you. Not to say that you and your brother aren’t a piece of work, but at least you don’t have undiagnosed narcissism disorder. Anyway, if what I gathered about the two of you is true, you’d greatly benefit by getting bloody laid and trying out cunts that aren’t hers and are actually the good kind of. I said my piece,” he declares, and swallows another sip. “Damn, this is good.”
Jaime considers it.
Thing is: that’s exceedingly good talk, but he’s never even been with anyone else than Cersei because he didn’t look at anyone else. He didn’t even let himself think about doing it. And as much as he certainly has had offers, he always shrugged them off. He doesn’t even know how he’d go about hitting on someone.
Still.
He takes a look around the bar. There are women, sure. But a lot of them remind him of Cersei somehow — none looks like her, sure, but all of them have the same styled haircut, wear expensive clothes or dresses and twelve-inch stilettos, all of them have perfect make-up and manicured hands, and Jaime doesn’t feel like hitting on any of them.
Hell. He always thought that love was a serious thing, that you couldn’t be with people you didn’t feel something for, or that weren’t compatible, and he never saw the appeal in fucking women he happened to find attractive to the eye without anything behind it. The idea of putting a move on someone just to make Cersei jealous doesn’t have that much appeal beyond the basic spite.
“I don’t know,” he says, “no one looks very appealing.”
Bronn takes a look around. “Yeah, guess this is too high class if you’re coming from your cunt of a sister. Fuck, I can’t believe I’m saying it out fucking loud. Well, next one then. We’re going for less stuck-up. I doubt the alcohol’s going to be bad anyway.”
“Cheers,” Jaime says, and clinks their glasses together one last time.
— —
The next bar is the same kind of, so they skip it.
The one after, though, seems interesting. Or better: there’s a lot of noise coming from inside it, and it doesn’t look too classy. Jaime says they can give it a go, and then they walk straight into a Disneyland-induced nightmare.
“The hell is this?” He asks to the woman on the right side of the entrance as he notices that three quarters of the place are filled with people dressed up like they’re all out of a different Disney movie. Fine, it’s Vegas, he shouldn’t be surprised, but when you spot a Snow White, a Cinderella, an Ariel and a Rapunzel in the span of ten seconds, it kind of takes you aback. Especially when there’s Elvis playing in the background.
The woman, who has short hair, dark eyes, pale skin and who looks entirely at ease in her bouncer uniform and tie, shrugs. “You don’t know? There’s a wedding chapel near here.”
“A wedding chapel.”
“Yeah. Viva Las Vegas.” The woman has a remarkable British accent, he notices, but doesn’t ask what the fuck she’s doing bouncing in a bar on the Strip. “Anyway, they do themed weddings. You can have Elvis, James Bond, Clint Eastwood or whatever the fuck else. This one happy couple had the Fairytale themed wedding which means everyone got free costumes until tomorrow evening, then they have to return them. Except that the two blokes who got married ran off to their hotel an hour ago and it’s just their friends partying now. You can go in, though, there’s space.”
“Thanks,” Jaime says, tipping her twenty dollars.
“Anytime!” She calls behind him. Of course she would.
Then they drop at the bar. Bronn asks for a gin, Jaime for another whiskey, and then they turn and scan the rest of the crowd.
“Right,” he says, “Cinderella’s so not my type it’s not even funny.”
“Not to be a downer,” Bronn says, “but if right now you don’t want anyone with your sister’s aesthetic, you’re dead out of place. Shit, look at that Maleficent.”
Jaime does and drinks half of that glass. “Yeah, no. Well, the drinks are good and the music isn’t shitty. I’ll drink to that.” He turns back to the counter and sighs, suddenly feeling like shit at once — damn. That picture about killed his good mood, but how was it not going to happen? Cersei looked radiant and happy and she was looking at Rhaegar in a way Jaime is fairly sure she never looked at him even if he wishes it was the contrary, and now she gets the marriage of her dreams and the company merger while he’s going to be stuck in PA — which he hates — with her, feeling like a total failure because he could never conceive wanting anyone else in his life and he can’t even imagine how it would feel to live without her with him always, and something tells him it’s not healthy at all that he’s thinking that, but —
He sighs and asks for another drink, feeling his eyes burn just at the thought of what she told him before, at how she’d always tell him that they were the same persona and they couldn’t have nothing but each other and of course she knew, she had always known, how could he even doubt her, and then she went and said that he was a right idiot if he thought they could really be a thing forever —
“Hey,” a definitely feminine voice says from his side, even if he hadn’t noticed any woman sitting next to him, “I guess it’s not my business, but — are you all right?”
He turns, looking at whoever that is.
Oh.
Of course he didn’t notice.
Because there’s a woman sitting next to him, indeed, but other than being slightly taller than he is while not standing, having shoulders wider than his own and a fairly thick neck, she’s also… well. Not wearing a dress. It’s — okay, some incredibly tacky golden armor thing that’s not even metal, with brown trousers underneath and a turquoise cape that does compliment her eyes indeed — they’re incredibly pretty, he thinks. A clear, pure shade of blue that’s staring at him kind of worriedly. And fine, the rest of her face is homely in the best definition — she has large freckles all over her cheeks, straight blonde hair more straw-like than Cersei’s gold, full, dark lips, and her nose has been broken more than once from the looks of it.
Still.
She seems concerned.
And he feels like he should place that costume.
“Not really,” he admits, “but thanks for noticing. About two people have up to now and one is there.”
“Hi,” Bronn says, waving at her, “I’m the friend with the masochist streak.”
“Hey, you’re here on my dime and you’re having free drinks, you say masochist,” Jaime snorts. “Anyway, wait. You’re with the wedding party the bouncer was mentioning before?”
“Yeah,” she says, her face suddenly going redder. “But, like, I’m friends with both grooms, but not with many of their friends, so now that they’re gone, well.”
“Right, you were on your lonesome getting drinks. Can’t say I don’t relate. But wait, I need to figure out where the hell are you from.”
“… Edinburgh,” she cautiously says.
“Oh, so that was the accent,” he says, glad to have placed it. “Woah, seems like it’s the British invading this country all over again this evening. No, I meant which blasted Disney classic are you from.”
“I could tell you,” she offers.
“But it’s still familiar, I — oh, fuck,” he says, suddenly realizing it and wondering how he could have missed it when Tyrion used to watch that damned movie every other time when their father wasn’t home to scold him for it. “I guess your name isn’t Phoebus, is it?”
“No,” she says, sounding amused, “but it was the only costume in that chapel that actually, like, fit me, and it was my favorite movie back in the day, so.”
“Hey,” he goes on, “why not? You have the shoulders for it, you’re blonde, he’s blonde, score for you. Definitely less tacky than the Belle that just passed by.”
For a moment, the woman’s eyes go slightly wider, as if she can’t believe he just said she looks better in that outfit than the girl with caramel-colored eyes and brown hair falling down on her back in waves, in the yellow, flowy dress, that just passed by. Then she clears her throat.
“Thanks,” she says, sounding cautious but pleasantly surprised. “And I imagine nothing could help you feel better? Because sorry if it’s not my business, but you really look like shit.”
Huh. She’s not letting it go, is she?
Jaime smiles. “You know what,” he says, “I don’t think much could help me feel better, but you were nice enough to ask. So, how about the next three drinks are on me if you tell me your name?”
He doesn’t even know if he expects her to answer. Honestly, he just wanted to chat a bit and he’d really just offer her a drink because she gave a shit and he can afford it.
He looks up at her.
She parts her lips.
“Brienne,” she finally answers. “And you would be?”
Oh. She actually hasn’t recognized him yet?
He grins back.
“Jaime,” he replies. “I’m Jaime.”
Twenty minutes before
This, Brienne thinks, has been the worst idea Loras and Renly ever had.
She does understand that Renly wanted to give Loras the wedding of his dreams.
She does understand that he was willing to spend all the necessary money on it.
What she doesn’t get is that they had to fly to fucking Las Vegas for it. Couldn’t they have their fairytale wedding in the woods in Cornwall or something like that?
Okay, she supposes, the woods in Cornwall wouldn’t have granted Loras entering the chapel on a coach that looked like Cinderella’s, with footmen.
And probably it wouldn’t have included the eighteen roses bouquet (given Brienne’s distaste for those flowers since she was given some by that asshole Ronnet Connington who, in high school, invited her to prom and then dumped her just before the dance started in front of everyone, that was not her favorite part of the whole shitshow), the photo session in the white gazebo, the fairytale wedding scroll, Renly and Loras’s names in lights on the chapel’s marquee and optional paid costumes for all the fucking one hundred guests.
And the ridiculous thing is that the entire shebang cost about two thousand dollars, which given the quality of her costume is about fair, but they spent ten times that to fly all of the guests to fucking Las Vegas from London.
Ah, and that wasn’t including the fairy-tale themed wedding cake. Christ. Brienne doesn’t want to think that she’s here being a bitter asshole just because she is never most likely getting married at any point ever, not even the regular courthouse deal without all of this circus, but she has a feeling that this entire thing has been so beyond the realm of excessive that no one can blame her for wanting to get royally drunk.
Which is going to be a problem, since thanks to her damned size and good genetics, it takes her a lot to get tipsy, never mind royally drunk.
The fact that at least she could wear a costume belonging to a character she actually did like and that doesn’t make her look more ridiculous than about anyone else helps, but honestly? What the fuck. She scrolls down her Facebook feed, sighing at seeing that the chapel’s social media manager did tag her in the wedding pictures.
She figures that at least no one will pay attention to her when Loras is wearing a damned green princess dress.
So: she wants to get royally drunk and at least Renly and Loras swore they’d cover the tab in the morning and they do have the money for it, in between the two of them, and therefore she fucking will.
She gets a whiskey on the rocks and starts sipping at it when someone sits next to her with a groan as Suspicious Minds turns into Heartbreak Hotel — at least the music is good. She turns and glances at him, but she can only see the back of his head because he’s confabulating with the other friend who came in with him, and they’re apparently rating some of the girls in the wedding party. Half of them are Margaery’s friends, Brienne can’t even remember the names, and while she doesn’t get most of the conversation, she’s kind of surprised to hear them say that none of them are to their taste or something. Which is weird. All of Margaery’s friends look like her, they should find someone they like. They turn towards the counter a moment later, she can hear it, and after the guy next to her orders a pina colada, she notices that he sounds… really down.
She dares turning at her left again.
Well.
Certainly the guy is a sight for sore eyes — tall, definitely muscled under his red shirt, golden blonde hair that curls neatly behind his neck, a profile that seems out of a Greek statue, perfectly shaped warm pink lips, a beard that hasn’t been cured for a good five days or so but that definitely looks good on him, and the lone green eye she sees would be a lovely shade of emerald if he didn’t look completely miserable and he didn’t sound completely miserable.
Now: Brienne doesn’t usually talk to strangers. But, the guy really does look like shit, and it’s not like he can think much worse of her than of anyone in the room, and anyway, if he tells her to fuck off, it’s a large bar and she can go get drunk at the other end of the corner, and she hates being near people who obviously look like that without even asking them if they need help.
“Hey,” she asks, clearing her throat, “I guess it’s not my business, but — are you all right?”
The guy turns to his side, squinting at her.
The only confirmation she gets from it is that he’s even fucking hotter if you look at his entire, perfect symmetrical, squared face rather than just at the profile. She just hopes that he doesn’t just laugh at her like most other people would do, at least according to her frankly abysmal experience.
He doesn’t. Instead, he squints at her for a long, long moment. Then —
“Not really,” he sighs, “but thanks for noticing. About two people have up to now and one is there.”
“Hi, I’m the friend with the masochist streak.” Brienne looks behind Hot Guy’s shoulder and sees the friend waving at her — the friend looks a bit older than Hot Guy and definitely has more lines on his face, but he also looks in way better spirits. Brienne figures he isn’t in dire need to get drunk.
“Hey, you’re here on my dime and you’re having free drinks, you say masochist,” Hot Guy tells him, thought without much bite. “Anyway, wait. You’re with the wedding party the bouncer was mentioning before?”
“Yeah,” she answers, knowing that she’s blushing ripe-tomato red, but she figures it would be useless to deny it. “But, like, I’m friends with both grooms, but not with many of their friends, so now that they’re gone, well.”
“Right, you were on your lonesome getting drinks. Can’t say I don’t relate. But wait, I need to figure out where the hell are you from.”
Wait, what? He probably heard the accent. Well, he also has a British one, she thinks he has to be from London or somewhere posh, from the way he sounds, so maybe he’s curious.
“… Edinburgh,” she tells him.
“Oh, so that was the accent,” he grins, looking very pleased with himself. “Woah, seems like it’s the British invading this country all over again this evening.” She kind of wants to laugh at that, it was funny, but she doesn’t. Better to not show too much confidence. "No, I meant which blasted Disney classic are you from.”
“I could tell you,” she tells him, kind of not believing they’re actually talking and he seems to be fairly serious about it. Right, he’s also half-tipsy, but still.
“But it’s still familiar, I — oh, fuck,” he says, his eyes going wide as he obviously realizes it. “I guess your name isn’t Phoebus, is it?”
“No,” she says, not bothering to hide that she finds his enthusiasm at having figured it out fairly touching, “but it was the only costume in that chapel that actually, like, fit me, and it was my favorite movie back in the day, so.”
“Hey,” he says, “why not? You have the shoulders for it, you’re blonde, he’s blonde, score for you. Definitely less tacky than the Belle that just passed by.”
Wait.
Margaery is the only Belle around.
Did he just say she looks better than Margaery or that she wears her costume better when Margaery was born for hers and when — people don’t even look at her, if Margaery is around?
Did he actually mean it?
Well. From the way he’s looking at her, she thinks he is. Shit. Wow. She has no idea of how to take it, except that… on one side… she does like it, deep down.
“Thanks,” she answers, hoping that she won’t sound embarrassed as she goes back to the main topic. Because he still looks terrible.. “And I imagine nothing could help you feel better? Because sorry if it’s not my business, but you really look like shit.”
He squints at her again, but then he smiles a grin of pearly white teeth that would be the pride of any dentist’s advertisement.
“You know what,” he says, “I don’t think much could help me feel better, but you were nice enough to ask. So, how about the next three drinks are on me if you tell me your name?”
For a moment, she can’t make sense of it.
Did he just ask if he can buy her drinks if she tells him her name, with a sort of flirty tone to it, and — she honestly can’t believe that this guy is somehow hitting on her, except that… if he’s not then he’s being friendly and offering her alcohol, which means that she can drink on two different free tabs.
Well, now that’d be downright idiotic if she said no when her entire plan tonight was drinking until she passed out and forgot about how much she hates her life?
“Brienne,” she answers. “And you would be?”
He grins back, looking… pleasantly surprised?
“Jaime,” he replies. “I’m Jaime.”
Huh. Sounds nice, she decided.
“Nice to meet you,” she says. “So, are you buying me something to drink my sorrows in?”
“What, you also are in dire need of doing that? Sure thing. Sharing is caring,” he says, and calls the bartender.
Brienne decides that maybe this evening won’t be as shitty as it could have been, after all.
— —
Half an hour later, they’re halfway through a bourbon bottle and she’s not feeling like she has to keep her guard up as much. Fine, she also has started feeling that alcohol, but he’s the kind of person who likes to talk a lot and while his sense of humor is actually abysmal, it’s… the fun kind of abysmal. And it’s not at her expense at least — for that matter, he’s done at his expense, at his friend’s, at the taste of anyone who came up with that fairytale wedding package, not that she can’t disagree because it’s beyond tacky, but not at her. Not even once. And maybe she’s let him vent as she drank, but whenever she did say something he didn’t see to not take her seriously.
Shit. Does she like him? She doesn’t know. Sure as hell, she knows she’s down with finishing that bottle and maybe opening another.
When he asks her, she says yes.
— —
“So,” he asks one quarter into the new one, “why would you be drinking sorrows at a wedding?”
She shrugs, taking a sip from her glass. “’S just,” she says, “I love them and they’ve been my friends for years and I’m happy for them enough that I actually, like, came here and put on this thing, but then I think that it’s not like there’s a line of people willing to do it with me. Okay, wait, I don’t want the fucking fairytale wedding with the footmen, like, no, but — guess I’m jealous. Not that it’s nice to say it.”
“Hey,” he says, “you’ve listened to me rant for this long, you’ve actually noticed I’m feeling like shit and you went all the way here because they’re your friends, you seem fairly nice to me. Nicer than I am anyway. You’re allowed a few nasty feelings.”
He tops up her glass. She clinks it against his.
“You don’t seem that bad to me,” she blurts. “I mean, how long have we been talking? One hour?”
“More or less,” he confirms.
“Well. You’re —” She stops, drinks some more, licks her lips. “I mean, you haven’t reminded me of all the reason why I’m not in a princess costume and — most guys who don’t know me, they wouldn’t last twenty minutes before making me notice.”
He squints at her, his mouth twisting in a frown. “Just for science, but do you have an asshole magnet around you or what?”
She almost spits the drink. “Do I have a what?”
“An asshole magnet or somethin’. I mean, anyone who’d do that is an arse. Fine, I am one, but I’m not that kind of. Anyway, your prince costume doesn’t look half bad on you, even if it looks fucking terrible in itself.”
“Point taken,” she sighs, drinking her fill. “Actually — you know what. It’s hot. I’ve got a shit underneath. You mind helping me get the armor out?”
She doesn’t even know how she found it in herself to ask a guy to put her hands somewhere near her chest.
Jaime, though, merely grins, swallows the rest of his drink and turns towards her.
“Sure thing,” he says. “Never said I can’t be a gentleman if I want to.”
Then she raises her arms and turns to the side so he can reach for the clasps on the side of the armor.
Maybe she’ll manage to breathe without feeling all the blood rush to her face after she’s out of the fucking thing.
***
So: Jaime hadn’t exactly predicted that he’d end up helping Brienne out of the horrid golden armor when he offered her that drink, but especially after what she’s just said, he’s flattered she’d ask, and so he does. It’s not that hard after all — two clasps on each side and it’s over. She lets it fall on the ground with a breath of relief —
And then he stops dead in his tracks, hand mid-air as he grabs the bourbon again, because underneath that armor, she had that white long shirt Phoebus wore in the second half of the movie, which is obviously half-soaked in sweat because it was hot, and it has a a slight V-neck that shows a bit of pale, freckled skin, and somehow it’s sticking to her chest, which means that he can see the exact shape of her breasts if he stares enough.
Fine. They’re small, nothing to say, and he could fit them into one hand, most likely, but with that shirt and the fact that the outfit now really looks good on her — the masculine cut is good on her, obviously, but white, turquoise and blonde makes a really nice match, and she does look the part, well, he can’t help thinking, she’s definitely something.
Wait.
Is he attracted to her?
Maybe, he reasons, but then again… she couldn’t be more different from his sister, for that matter, and it’s not negative at all. He wasn’t looking for —
Wait a fucking —
Oh, shit.
After all, he realizes in a moment of clarity that he’s not so sure he likes, the entire point was that he and supposed were supposed to be the same person, but — evidently she didn’t need that so much, did she, and something makes him realize that he never looked at anyone else because he had her, sure, but if he just never looked at anyone else because he never questioned what she had to say about their relationship then maybe —
Maybe Brienne over here is actually his type and he just never knew he’s apparently into tall women with large shoulders and clear, large blue eyes because he never let himself look?
Fuck.
“Hey,” she asks him, “you kind of blanched. Are you all right?”
She sounds so concerned, his throat closes up on itself.
“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I just — I thought about something that I didn’t realize before. Never mind. So, how about we try out the vodka?”
“Fuck, I’m so game for it,” she agrees.
Jaime gets a whole bottle of the best Russian they have.
Then he tips her glass generously.
Two hours later
By the time the clock reads ten PM, Jaime is the best kind of smashed.
“So,” Brienne says, her half-empty margarita still in her hand, those blue eyes of hers looking very, very lively, “this prick who in primary school decided that it would be fun to, uh, ask me in public if I had a crush on him and inform me he’d never even dream of looking at me twice, ends up in the opposite team at the fencing secondary school tournaments. Well, it was one on one, but you get me.”
“I hope you took your revenge,” he says before downing his own vodka shot.
“He didn’t score once when he was against me,” she grins, almost shyly, and man, she does have a lovely smile when she lets herself go for it. “He was eliminated at the first round.”
“And how did you fare?”
“I won,” she shrugs. “I was thinking of taking it back up at some point, but y’know, I got my degree, found the office job so I could leave home already and that doesn’t leave too much time for that kind of sports. But hey, we’ve got to pay the bills.”
Not a thing Jaime ever had to worry about.
Even if given the fucking mess of a family he comes from, he wishes he did, at times.
“’S a pity tho. I always liked fencing,” he sighs. “I wanted to go for it, but eh. The father thought horse riding was more dignified.”
“Ugh,” Brienne says, “I hate it whenever I hear people thinking they know better than their kids when they have to pick their own damned hobbies. So what if something else is more dignified? It’s sports, not the end of the world.”
“Well, just based on that sentence, I can one hundred per cent assure you that you’d be a better parent than my fucking father, and my mother died when I was seven. She was way better than him, admittedly, but never mind that.”
She laughs, then downs the last shot of margarita. “That would be assuming that anyone would have kids with me, but thanks for that. I mean, you’re already assuming that I actually would get to do that, it’s sweet.”
He doesn’t like the self-deprecating tone.
Mostly, because she’s reminding him of himself three days ago and — somehow he has a feeling that it’s not how she should be sounding.
“Fuck all,” he says, ordering her another margarita, “what does it mean that you should get to do that? People can do whatever the fuck they want in life. If you want them, you should have them and honestly, we’ve been here what, two hours, three, whatever, and as far as I’m concerned any guy should be lucky to end up with you.”
She goes so red in the face, it would be almost hilarious.
Almost.
“Are you serious?” She asks, her voice shaking slightly.
“Deadly. Fuck’s sake, let’s just say where I come from the number of genuinely nice people surrounding you is inversely proportional to the amount of money people have, and let’s just say that the reason I’m here drinking my heart out is someone who’s admittedly fucking terrible except that I didn’t realize it until now, and I want to vomit just at putting two and two together, so what the fuck, right?”
Brienne puts her glass down, staring at him with a certain intensity to that blue of her eyes that makes him hold his breath for a moment.
She looks about to say something.
Then Jaime’s phone rings.
It was on the counter, and he can see Cersei’s face staring at him from the screen.
Fucking obvious.
“Hell,” he says, “meet my fucking sister,” he sighs. He also had some fifty missed calls. He answers. “Cersei.” He tries to sound as detached as possible. He’s kind of failing. “Fancy hearing from you. Has your engagement gone well?”
“Splendidly,” she says, “except that I invited you.”
“Never told you I was going to attend,” he says. She’s shouting so much, he’s fairly sure everyone is hearing her even if he doesn’t have her on speaker. “And you should guess that I have no reason to.”
“That’s not the point! It’s a company thing, and you should be here, not — not —”
“See, you don’t even know where I am,” he says, “but never mind that, it’s not important if it concerns me and not you.”
“And where are you, just so you share with the class?”
He sighs. “In Las Vegas.”
“Excuse me?”
“In Las Vegas. With Bronn.”
“Oh, of course you’re with Bronn, I couldn’t have expected different from —”
“Stop right there,” Jaime interrupts her. “You want to be an arse to me, whatever, but leave out of this people who actually, I mean, at least give half of a shit.”
“Bronn just wants to drink on your money,” she says.
“Even if it was the case, he is here and you’re not, so you’re making a very bad case here.”
“Well, I’m expecting you to come back —”
“Forget it.”
“What?”
“Cersei. You ended it,” he says, hoping that it doesn’t sound as damning as it actually is. “I can’t do this. I can’t fucking do this. I’m not at your fucking service and if I ever thought I was, fuck me for not seeing it before. I’m going to come back when I want to and when I feel like it, you can handle your engagement bullshit on your own and I’m not interested in whatever it is you have to say.”
“Jaime, you’re drunk and you obviously aren’t thinking straight, and it’s not like it’s any news —”
“Can I have that phone?” Brienne asks.
“What?” Jaime asks her, forgetting it for a moment.
“I heard the entire thing. Can I have it? I’m not saying put her on speaker, but if you want to…”
He doubts they’d hear shit, given that there’s Hound Dog playing in the background and he really doesn’t relish having the entire bar hearing it.
“Hey,” he tells Cersei, “the new friend I’ve been drinking with wants to talk to you,” he says, and hands Brienne the phone.
She takes it.
“Hello?” Brienne asks.
“And who are you?” Cersei shouts again, except that Brienne doesn’t even flinch.
“Someone who’s known your brother for what, three hours? Yeah, three, whatever, and honestly, what the fuck is wrong with you?”
At that, Jaime can feel Bronn going still as a statue next to him. He knows he’s doing the exact same. Did she actually —?
“What did you just ask?” Cersei shrieks in her phone. “It’s not your business, miss whoever —”
“I just asked what the fuck is wrong with you,” Brienne says calmly again. “Because other than having bought me some pretty sweet booze, he’s actually been a pretty nice person until now even if he’s obviously miserable — ‘cause of you I guess —, he’s only had rather amusing things to say, he’s pretty good company and he’s obviously in need of having a nice time, and he thinks straighter than most guys I run into at any given time. And where I come from, talking to people in your frankly condescending way as if they’re right twats and you know better than them and they should do whatever you want is really fucking not okay, so how about you stop telling people what to do and let them enjoy their evening?”
“You don’t know anything,” Cersei shoots back. Jaime wonders how Brienne hasn’t ruptured an eardrum yet. “You can’t presume to —”
“I presume that your brother is, as far as I’ve seen, the kind of guy I wish I ran into more, while as far as I’ve heard, you’re a proper tosser, so how about you let him live? Thanks, I’ve said everything I had to,” she finishes, and then closes the call in Cersei’s face and hands Jaime the phone back.
Also, a moment later her face goes red all over again.
“Uh,” she says, “I hope I haven’t… overstepped? I mean, I didn’t think, but I could hear, and you didn’t deserve to hear any of that crap, not when you’re the only guy I’ve talked to in years that wasn’t, like, related or tied to the two friends who got married who actually didn’t make me feel awkward as fuck when being around him or saw fit to inform me of how unattractive I am.” Fuck. She looks embarrassed as fuck, but she’s still holding his stare, and for a moment Jaime thinks, screw that, it was me who lucked out tonight.
“Please,” he says, “it’s not as if you haven’t been the one person bar him and my brother that I’ve met lately who actually made me feel good while talking to them.”
“For — for real? People don’t take me for this great conversationalist, usually,” she says, as if she can’t believe it —
“For real,” he says, feeling his mouth curl into a half-grin. “For that matter, we’ve talked for what, three hours, and I’m pretty sure I’ve got more in common with you than her.” He nods at her phone. “I mean, I suppose you guessed. And you haven’t ran yet.”
“I — I might,” she admits. “And well, it sounds — freaky, I’ll admit it, but after listening to her I can only imagine why you’re here. I don’t go judging people when I don’t know the entire situation. Why?”
He stares at her, for a long, long moment, her lovely eyes staring into his, and he thinks, I kind of want to kiss her, and she’d probably say yes given how she’s looking at him and what she’s just said —
Except that —
Wait.
They’re in Vegas, aren’t they?
As in, the one place in the entire Western hemisphere where he could actually —
“You know what,” he says, “I’ve got a proposal for you.”
“… As in?”
“Marry me,” he says, and for some kind of miracle she doesn’t laugh in her face. Bronn spits his alcohol on the counter, though, but Jaime is too busy caring about her reaction to it.
“Wait,” she answers, “are you serious?”
“I’m deadly serious,” he replies. “I mean, honestly, we get each other, I’ve had more fun in the last three hours than in the last ten years or so, you apparently don’t hate me either, I think I really like you, as — juvenile as it sounds, I guess, and it’s not like most people I know actually, like, give a shit about my opinion or anything or —”
“Wait,” she says, “you really like me?”
“Why the hell wouldn’t I?”
She motions at — herself, he figures.
He shrugs and moves closer.
“Listen, I could make you a very long list of reasons why I would really like you, and I can assure you that since we met I’ve thought more than once that your eyes are outrageously pretty and your ass is a gift from whichever divinity exists if they do, and if not it’s a miracle of science, and I’ve also tried to not stare at your chest too much because I’m really not wanting you to assume I’m that kind of creep —”
“Men don’t stare at my chest,” she replies feebly.
“Too bad,” he says, “they’re missing out. What I meant, anyway, is that — I mean, I’ve — I don’t think I’ve ever ran into anyone I got along with so well at once, and I tend to go with my gut, and you did want to get married or so you said, so it has to be destiny, doesn’t it?”
She keeps on staring at him. “I — that does make sense, but — I mean, it seems too good —”
“Hey, I’ll make you a deal. Since it’s all fairytale themed and shit, let’s say that we make the ultimate test.”
“… As in?”
“I’m kissing you now. If it’s terrible, we can just forget it. If it’s good, well, proof we’re meant to be. How about it?”
She stares at him for another five, long seconds —
Then she leans down and kisses him first.
And fuck. Her mouth is hot and wet and she’s kissing him with urgency and as if she really wants it, and he kisses back at once, his tongue slipping inside her mouth and feeling like they’re slotting together so perfectly, he wonders how kissing Cersei ever felt like the natural state of things when Brienne’s mouth is soft and warm and her hand is grasping the back of his head gently and her fingers are rough but in the good way, and — yeah. They part to breathe and leans in again, and again, and if this was a test, well, he knows the answer now.
When they part for good, he’s literally without breath and she’s looking at him like it’s her birthday and Christmas come together.
“So,” he says, “Brienne, will you marry me?”
She smiles. Fully. Hard enough it brightens her entire face. “What if I want to?” She says.
He grins back.
“Bronn!” He shouts. “I’m marrying her before dawn. I need help here.”
“No need to shout,” Bronn says, “I’m right the fuck here.”
Then he grabs his own phone.
Jaime drags Brienne closer so they can both look.
Oh, he is fucking doing this, he decides as her fingers tentatively tangle with his.
***
Let’s have it out of the way now: Bronn hadn’t really anticipated any of this when he proposed going to Vegas.
His reasoning had been fairly straightforward. Jaime needed to forget about his cunt of a sister and has endless money to spend, therefore a week in Las Vegas would absolutely do the trick and if he got the free ticket to come with, even better.
Except that now the crazy fucker is actually bent on doing this marriage thing.
Properly.
“Okay,” Bronn tells him as he checks the most important thing, as in, how to get the fucking marriage license, “you’re apparently in your rotten luck today, because it’s eleven PM and the marriage license bureau is open until midnight and you can get a license in fifteen minutes tops if there isn’t a line. Which I think won’t be the fucking case since it’s Tuesday. Now, you need an ID, which I sure as fuck hope you both have with.”
“I do,” Brienne says, sounding still awed.
“Yeah, got that,” Jaime says. “So, what else we need?”
“Seventy-seven bucks in cash to pay at the bureau, then you need rings and two witnesses and to book the venue. Which you can do online anyway.”
“Yeah, no problem, got that,” Jaime says, calling the bartender and telling him to bring over the bill, he has to go get married and pay up the bill.
“Sure you got that,” Bronn says. “Well, I can be your witness, you need another one.”
“Dunno,” Jaime says, “maybe we should have a couple of people coming other than you.”
“And what are you gonna do, invite the first three people you see?”
“Please not anyone who came to that other wedding,” Brienne groans.
“Hey, who the hell you take me for?” He asks. “‘Course I wouldn’t. Okay. Wait. Bronn, call me a taxi.” He pays for the drinks, then starts staring around in the room and zooms on one guy in the corner — he’s tall, Bronn notices, with long black hair, a leather jacket and the entire left side of his face that looks completely fucking burned. He also exudes vibes of leave me the hell alone.
So of course Jaime stands up and goes next to the guy.
“Hey,” he says.
“The hell do you want? Do I know you?” Scarred Guy asks.
“No,” Jaime says, “but I’m getting married in two hours at most and I don’t have a witness, and you don’t look busy.”
“… You want me to be your witness.”
“Why not? I see nothing wrong with you unless you don’t have an ID.”
Bronn doesn’t know if he should laugh, cry, facepalm or inform Tyrion that his brother his being his usual self — as in, he’s acting out of pure instinct but since his instincts are mostly decent, it’s not a necessarily bad thing.
“… And who’s the bride?” Scarred Guy asks.
Jaime moves so he can see Brienne, who’s still sitting at her place.
She waves tentatively. Scarred Guy’s eyes narrow as he looks back at Jaime.
“You aren’t making fun of her, are you?”
“No,” Jaime says, sounding outraged. “I wouldn’t marry people to make fun of them.”
Scarred Guy seems to consider it. Then he downs his whiskey glass and slams it on the counter. “Fuck all, I had no plans for tonight and this sounds fucking entertaining. Right, I’ll be your bloody witness.”
“Excellent! And what’s your name?”
“Sandor Clegane,” the guy says dryly, standing up.
“Excellent. Bronn, we’re getting a taxi to the courthouse, like, now.”
“Wait a bloody moment,” Bronn says, checking the map on his phone. “Come on, it’s a fifteen minute walk. No need to find a taxi.”
“And what if there’s a line?” Jaime protests. “Actually, you know what, let’s capitalize.”
“Capitalize?” Clegane asks.
“Me and the bride are taking a taxi to the bureau. You and — Sandor here can find us a couple rings, I trust your taste.” Then he shoves Bronn half of the cash he had in his wallet. “Then you’re meeting us at the bureau and we can find a courthouse or whatever, how about that?”
“… Right,” Bronn says, not even asking him if he’s serious because of course he is. “I guess —”
“Amazing. Okay, fine, Brienne?”
“Yeah?”
“We’re going to the bureau. Fuck the armor, I’ll pay them back. Oh, hey!” He’s talking to the bouncer now, who is obviously leaving because she’s at the end of her shift, same as a redhead waitress going out with her.
“Yeah? You’ve got a problem?” She asks.
“No, all the contrary. But, I need someone to attend my marriage ceremony and to help them buy the rings.” He nods towards Bronn and Clegane, who has moved next to him and looks mildly amused but also as if he’s wondering what the fuck he’s going on. “So, you wanna attend?”
“Seriously? You don’t even know us,” the redhead says.
“Who cares? Your colleague here was okay when we came in. Also, I tip well, don’t I?”
“He’s right,” the bouncer says. “And you know what? Sounds fun and I’m always up to help sisters in need of a wedding audience. Okay, I’m in. It’s Asha, by the way.”
“Jaime, excellent. And you are?”
“Ygritte,” the redhead says. “Oh, fuck that, I had no plans for the night. I’m in, too. Are they going to buy the rings?”
“Hey, I have taste,” Clegane protests.
“Whatever. See you four at the courthouse then!” Jaime says, then grabs Brienne’s hand and drags her out of the bar.
Bronn is nowhere near sure about what the fuck is going on.
Then he clears his throat and looks at the girls. “Well,” he says, “you two work here. Any place where we can get them rings?”
They look at each other, exchange a few options but then conclude that they’re all closed at this time.
“Huh,” Asha says, “well, there’s the pawn shop on the South Las Vegas Boulevard.”
“Right. That should be open.”
Clegane shrugs. “Well, sounds fine enough on short notice. Is it on the way to the bureau?”
“Yeah,” Ygritte confirms.
“Well then,” Bronn says, “let’s go already. We’ve got a wedding to organize.”
Fuck that all.
— —
When they get to the pawn shop, all four of them go inside.
Sure as hell, the owners look perplexed by four people with their looks buying rings — Asha is pretty much wearing all leather and Ygritte has worn-out jeans and a Nirvana t-shirt that looks a size larger than her shoulders, and then Bronn says they have a thousand bucks for a budget so how about they show them the options?
They’re shown a number of rings so tacky he’s tempted to buy them just for the laughs, but Clegane, who is apparently not a dick, glares at him and tells him that given how happy the girl looked at the prospect of this wedding, he’s not letting him buy mock rings. The other two girls agree, slapping him on the back, and Bronn capitulates and just lets them pick. In the end, the least tacky options are a golden ring with a blue stone in the middle that he thinks should fit Brienne fine enough and a silver band with some red topaz that should fit him. They get away with some three hundred dollars total.
“I think I should call the one family member who’d care,” Bronn says as they head towards the bureau —
And then he notices what place they’re just walking past.
Huh.
Huh.
He grins to himself and decides he’s going to at least suggest it.
Then he calls Tyrion while the other three walk ahead.
“Hey,” he says, “sorry for the hour, but you might wanna know what happened.”
“Yeah, please give me some updates here because Cersei has been screeching about Jaime being in Vegas with some kind of whore for the last hour or so but no one has really got the details. The fuck?”
Bronn tries to not laugh his ass off. “Nah, that wasn’t a whore. She was this girl your brother chatted up at a bar. They got pleasurably drunk together, they liked each other, she apparently couldn’t stand Cersei treating him like shit on the phone and told her off, and now they’re getting married.”
“Interesting, now — wait, what?”
“He’s marrying her.”
“He’s marrying — you’re shitting me.”
“I’m not. They’re getting the marriage license, we just got them the ring. Uh, we — me and three people your brother recruited at the bar for witnessing purposes.”
“Please, tell me it’s a good idea and she’s not a gold digger,” Tyrion groans.
“If it consoles you, she has no fucking clue of who he is and she really couldn’t dig for gold if she tried. Also, both your father and sister would hate her guts.”
“Right. Got it. Keep me updated then.”
“Will do,” Bronn tells him, and closes the call. Jesus H. Christ, this evening is going places he had barely imagined it could.
By now, they got as far as the bureau — in time to see Jaime and Brienne walk out of it looking like two people who are still sober enough to know what the fuck they’re doing while Jaime holds up the marriage certificate.
“And there it is!” Jaime proudly proclaims. “Do you have the rings?”
Asha raises the paper bag with their purchases inside. “Excellent, I’ll just trust you on that. So,” he says, “where do we do this?”
Bronn shrugs, opens up his phone again. “You’ve got a preference? Because it’s choke-full of chapels here.”
“What’s the nearest?” Jaime asks.
Bronn grins. “Well, you want Elvis to marry you, there’s the Graceland-something chapel five minutes from here. We walked in front of there. You can book online.”
Jaime considers it. “What do you say,” he asks Brienne, “should we get Elvis to marry us?”
She considers it, then —
“Sure, why not,” she agrees. “I mean, it’s Vegas. Guess it’d be — appropriate. Also, I’m not going back to the place I got the costume from, they’d kill me.”
“Fine, Elvis it is. How do we book?”
— —
Five minutes later, Bronn is sitting on the bureau’s stairs in between bride and groom with the other three kneeling behind him, looking at the options.
“Okay, shut the fuck up and listen now. You’ve got the beauty of six bloody options, because if you want two Elvis-es you should book in advance.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t need two,” Jaime dismisses him. “What are the options?”
“So, let’s see, never mind that you need to pay extra the sales tax and the officiant fee, you’ve got… Viva Las Vegas. Two hundred bucks, you’ve got Elvis escorting the bride and giving her away, two songs, roses for her and for you, a copy of Elvis and Priscilla’s certificate. Geez, I’m sure you couldn’t do without that.”
“Seems a bit little,” Jaime says, “and I’m not getting married with two hundred bucks. What’s the next one?”
Bronn clears his throat. “Loving you, for a moderate three hundred and twenty-nine bucks, there’s everything as before except it includes the picture, a certificate holder and Elvis sings three songs and not two. Of course, if you want to do better than that, you’ve got Can’t Help Falling in Love. Four-hundred and twenty-nine bucks, same as before except that you get a digital video of the ceremony and a Facebook live stream if you want it and the bouquet is larger. Of course, if they let us do it because it’s an internet special and I don’t know how much advance they’d need, you can try the Blue Hawaii package, where you’ve got as extras Elvis singing Hawaii-related songs, two leis, two Elvis themed sunglasses. Or, you can spend seven hundred bucks for Concert with the King, choose the jumpsuit, five songs and two hundred and sixty bucks credit for the professional pictures. What’s going to be your poison?”
Jaime thinks about it for a moment. Then —
“Fuck it, I’m not gonna be a Scrooge about my bloody wedding and if I treat my future wife to a two-hundred dollars wedding. Get the last one.”
Brienne’s eyes go wide, her hand reaching behind Bronn to touch his shoulder. “You don’t have to —”
“Oh, come on, it’s what, the same as I’ve spent in alcohol until now? Maybe? Fuck’s sake, let’s do this properly. Bronn, book it.”
“Okay, okay, let me get to the form. Right, you’re lucky, they have a spot in an hour and a half and they could do that one. You’ve got to pick the theme. Gold lame, black leather, white or aloha?”
Jaime thinks about it for a moment. “Dunno, I always was partial to the aloha one. Brienne?”
“That’ll work,” she agrees.
“Okay. Aloha suit, payment in cash on location, do you want the Facebook livestream?”
“Do you?” Jaime asks Brienne.
“Can we tag that asshole I mentioned before in it? Because if we can, yes.”
“You know what, splendid idea. I can tag my family as a whole. Okay, we’re getting it!”
Bronn specifies they’ll take the livestream.
Fuck, he needs more alcohol.
Then he sends over the form.
A minute later, Jaime’s phone buzzes.
“Look at that,” he says, “we already have a confirmation e-mail. They’re efficient, aren’t they?”
Sure as fuck they are, Bronn agrees, and stands up so those two can go back to french each other and he can warn Tyrion that there’ll be the Facebook livestream.
He thinks he’s going to find some bloody wine before this wedding starts.
***
Now: Robert Baratheon has not in any way shape or form regretted dumping the family business and starting a new life in the States when he realized Lyanna was not going to accept his marriage proposals.
He has also greatly enjoyed his new job for the last couple of years — he’s always loved singing and he’s always loved Elvis, so marrying people, dressed as Elvis, singing his songs? Absolutely amazing. Also, it pays pretty damned well and if he couldn’t be happy with Lyanna, well, at least he’ll make others happy, right? Win/win.
He also had been sorely offended that Renly had come to get married in Vegas and not only picked a day when he was on shift, but didn’t even get married at his working place. Still, he had shrugged and moved on with his list.
The last thing he had expected, though, was finding himself in front of Renly’s historical friend Brienne Tarth who sure as hell is here for his wedding, dressed in a some Disney costume that at least isn’t too tacky, who’s marrying Jaime Lannister of all people, and who seems to not be aware of the mess of a family she’d be marrying into.
Still, none of them are so drunk that they don’t know what the fuck they’re doing, when they come in they’re kissing and they have to be forcefully separated, and Robert is absolutely going to do his job.
He’s also absolutely going to text Renly before he walks Brienne down the isle, though. Jaime seemed very much amused at the prospect of him officiating, of course they both recognized him, and none of them objected to him marrying them.
Well then.
How do you feel about your friend outstaging you? Robert sends his text, then closes the phone and goes to don his aloha suit.
Oh, he’s going to enjoy the shit out of this.
He’s also going to ask Shireen to check the livestream and inform him of Tywin and Cersei’s reactions since he has a feeling that Stannis would not help him out with that, should he ask.
***
Tyrion doesn’t even have to look for the stream — he gets notified at ten in the morning, which means those two are getting married at two in the fucking morning.
He immediately logs in on Facebook.
The screen turns from black to salmon pink, showing the small chapel. Jaime is standing in the corner in an opened, rumpled white shirt and dress pants, and — he’s holding the flowers? The fuck? Then the music to Love Me Tender starts, and —
Woah.
The last thing Tyrion was imagining was that Robert Baratheon in sunglasses and that fucking white and gold Hawaiian Elvis suit would come inside, singing it without going out of tune, giving away a woman who’s about his height, just as broad, with straw-blonde hair, pretty blue eyes, a thrice-broken nose, freckles all over her face and a face that would not make the company’s advertising team, wearing some kind of medieval-looking cape with some flowers pinned to her shirt, who looks absolutely overjoyed of marrying his brother.
Who’s looking at her as if she’s the best thing that ever happened to him.
What the fucking fuck.
He doesn’t dare glancing at the comment section as the woman — right, Brienne, she’s tagged — moves next to Jaime while Robert keeps on singing around them. The only two people in attendance are a woman with short dark hair completely dressed in leather and a redhead who looks out of some early nineties grunge wet dream. Bronn is on Jaime’s side while some guy with dark hair and a fairly scarred face is on Brienne’s.
Tyrion doesn’t even wanna know how they found the witnesses.
He watches the entire ceremony in a mixture of horror and fascination as Robert goes into Burning Love after the first round of vows, then he sings Can’t Help Falling in Love as they exchange rings which are definitely mismatched, then they start exchanging vows on Robert’s cue and Tyrion doesn’t hear anything farther after I swear I won’t ever leave you at the Heartbreak Hotel because he’s too busy laughing so hard until he cries, which doesn’t change when Robert tells them that he has a personal recommendation for them and starts singing them A Little Less Conversation while Bronn and whoever the other bloke is sign the documents for the witnesses. The two women in attendance look like they’re having the time of their life, at least.
Then Robert says that they need just a last send-off.
Tyrion only dares glancing at the comments when he sees those two lip-locking as Robert starts singing Viva Las Vegas.
He immediately closes them just as a shriek is heard from downstairs.
He’s fairly sure Cersei is screaming that Jaime lost his fucking mind.
Tyrion immediately texts Bronn that if the target was also pissing Cersei off, they absolutely hit that target.
Well, he kind of can’t wait to meet the sister in law…
If they don’t get a divorce within the day, of course.
***
Brienne opens her eyes, blinking.
The sun is shining outside, the alarm reads three PM, she’s only wearing her costume’s shirt, her trousers and cape are on the ground, there’s a copy of Elvis and Priscilla’s certificate on the table, there’s a gold ring on her finger —
Holy fuck.
She immediately sits up, her head pounding, and regrets it at once because it was too fucking abrupt.
Then she glances down at her side, where a hand is grasping at her thigh when before it was on her hip.
Oh.
Oh.
Clear, large green eyes are staring up at her, and he sure as hell seems way less freaked out than her.
“Hi,” he groans, sitting up as well. “Damn, what time did we go to bed yesterday night?”
Brienne suddenly remembers him telling her that if she was Phoebus he should be up to the task, and he had found someplace who’d deliver him a cheap Esmeralda red costume at three AM.
They definitely didn’t crash before six. The sheets are soiled, her legs are covered in fluids, she definitely remembers that the sex was fucking great, and he’s giving her such a sweet grin, her stomach is contorting on itself in the good way.
“At dawn,” she says. “I think I need coffee.”
“Fuck, same. You think there’s a diner somewhere? This hotel is four-stars, but breakfast sucks.”
“We’re in Las Vegas,” she says, “I’d be surprised if we didn’t find a diner, overpriced or not. But —” She closes her eyes, opens them again. “I guess, we should talk maybe?”
He blinks. “Wait, are you regretting this already without even giving me a chance?”
Wait. What? He sounds like he actually meant it.
“No,” she says at once. “I mean, I didn’t — but I just figured we should, uh, be on the same length? I guess? Like, it was a short notice decision.”
He looks a bit relieved at that. Seriously?
“Hey,” he says, “I might’ve been somewhat drunk, but when I decided I was into you, I wasn’t half as much. And I tend to take decisions with my gut, but I think I wouldn’t get married if I didn’t want it.”
Her hand finds his before she can think about it. “So — you’re sure about this?”
“I’m just saying,” he grins, tanging his fingers with hers, “that I might have another proposal for you.”
“… Shoot.”
“Let’s give this a year. It works out, we come back and do it properly because I don’t want to get stick with pawnshop rings for the rest of my life. It doesn’t work out, we get an annulment and friends as before. What do you say?”
Brienne doesn’t know how she has somehow lucked out this much yesterday, but — sounds like a good proposal, to her.
“I’m saying yes,” she tells him cautiously, and then his mouth is on hers again.
It’s a long time before they actually get off the bed, wash and find the diner.
But as they drink coffee in their matching Elvis glasses that they got gifted at the chapel anyway because Robert insisted on giving them a gift even if it wasn’t included in the package and as they almost spit it out as they check each others’s Facebooks, she decides that maybe, maybe, there’s a chance they might not need to get an annulment after all.
Now she just has to decide how to tell her father that she married a legit billionaire in Las Vegas of all places.
But she can worry about that later.
Much, much later.
End.
