Chapter Text
As it happened, the storm was short-lived, barely lasting until the following morning.
Miss Tarth’s accompanying fever however lingered for nearly three days.
Septa Roelle was summoned from Evenfall. A spiritual sort, she was not blind to Gods’ blessings. Within moments of her arrival, she declared her charge unfit for travel. The apothecary agreed, leaving Morne Manor with two guests for the foreseeable future.
Tyrion did not mind playing host for Miss Tarth, but the Septa unnerved him terribly. She had a terrible tendency to be right where he meant to be, and always talking on about the sanctity of marriage, and the many values of a woman to run a household.
If the Septa had not devoted her life to the Gods, Tyrion might think she was less invested in her ward’s possible ascension to Lady Lannister as she was herself. Just this morning, Tyrion had come out of the study to find her waiting for him to discuss the merits of the Mother’s Mercy.
“Do cease stopping dead in your tracks,” Cersei snapped as he faltered before the drawing-room doorway. “Do you think she is lurking around every corner?”
“Easy for you to say,” Tyrion grumbled. “The good septa did not accompany you around the garden for nearly three hours quoting scripture.”
“I do not understand why you do not simply call for the carriage and escort her to it bodily.”
“Baelor be Blessed- I am not going to remove a woman of faith from my property, Cersei,” Tyrion hissed, too frayed to find the rapier of his wit. “Besides, Miss Tarth is still not recovered.”
Cersei’s mood soured further at the mere mention of his guest. “She is lucky she did not get herself killed,” Cersei said, not for the first or last time. His cousin had little kind words to speak of anyone but she had taken a particular offense to Miss Tarth which was only growing in its intensity with each passing day. “Riding a paltry mare into a storm- why, you have more sense.”
“If the fever takes her away, you really must speak at her wake,” Tyrion said, cutting her off from the oft-repeated diatribe. The apothecary had returned to Morne Manor to check on his patient after dinner but had not yet descended; Tyrion could only assume no news was good news.
Cersei glowered as they settled at the card table, but let the matter rest. His brother settled across from her and picked up the cards to deal. Jaime had been uncharacteristically quiet since the apothecary’s arrival, and while Tyrion had a strong suspicion why that was the case, he also was not tempted to inspire one of Cersei’s famed snits. With one last glance at the drawing room’s open door, Tyrion joined them.
A quarter of an hour later, after winning the last three games, there was still no news. Jaime had missed three of the last tricks and was no doubt going to burn a hole straight through the table at this rate. Tyrion called for his steward. “Has there been any news from the Blue Suite?”
Bronn shrugged. “The apothecary considers Miss Tarth well enough to make the journey home without risk within the week. The crone has them all in prayer to thank the Stranger for His mercy.”
“Then, they’ll be gone soon. Thank the Maiden,” Cersei replied, throwing her cards down. “I am tired of hearing the incessant praying coming from those rooms.”
“As I recall the last time you had a sniffle, you took to your bed for a month and insisted your father call for the Grand Maester himself,” Tyrion reminded his cousin.
“I am not as hale as Brienne Tarth,” Cersei snapped back. “Besides, how do we know she is even ill-”
“Cersei,” Jaime warned, not taking his eyes from the cards. “If you can hear a woman quietly praying, you could not miss the coughing fits.”
Miss Tarth had been lost in a fever delirium for the first evening and had kept the entire floor awake with her hoarse shouts and groans. Cersei had complained mightily about her lack of sleep, but Tyrion could not help but notice Cersei did not have the same bags under her eye as his brother. At least the moans had subsided after the first evening, now they would never know there was a guest among them if not for-
“Steward? Steward, there you are- I have been calling-” Tyrion stepped back as Septa Roelle entered the room. The woman was a fearsome creature, a gaunt face and a step so light she almost seemed to appear from the shadows. “Brienne is awake and her appetite is returned. Might I trouble the kitchens for some bread and jam?”
“Excellent news! Bronn, have the cook prepare a partridge,” Tyrion instructed.
“Honestly Tyrion,” Cersei tsked. “She’ll hardly be able to keep to digest such a rich offering after days without.” She turned to Bronn, a sneer appearing on her face at the sight of him. There was little love between the two of them, another key reason Tyrion kept Bronn on despite his lack of formal experience. “Bone broth soup and toast,” she instructed.
“White soup,” Jaime directed. “It is what our mother used to feed us when we were ill.”
Cersei eyed him. "What an excellent memory, Jaime. Yes, white soup will be the best thing for our dear guest."
Septa Roelle was satisfied with the wisdom of that suggestion and Bronn took his leave to the kitchens. He did not look nearly as pleased as Cersei about the whole matter. Understandable of course. Tyrion had promised him an easy assignment, out in the country with only a bachelor to worry about and now the job had turned into Bronn being at the back and call of Tyrion’s growing number of guests. Tyrion would have to give him some kind of raise, perhaps a new horse. After all, he liked Bronn. His steward treated Tyrion the same as he treated everyone else: with disinterest and bareilly veiled scorn.
“I am glad to hear Miss Tarth’s appetite has returned,” Tyrion said, gesturing for the septa to sit upon the sofa. Septa Roelle accepted with relish, perching upon the cushions and taking the opportunity to look fully about the room. Cersei and Jaime returned to cards, both doing their best to ignore the interloper. “Is she feeling more herself?”
“Brienne sends her apologies for her burdensome behavior,” the crone assured him, shaking her head as if her charge had purposefully nearly perished just to remain under his roof. “Honestly, I cannot tell what the child was thinking riding out in the rain, but Baelor in his Blessing sent her here. We can only be thankful for his mercy.”
Tyrion rather thought it had been Jaime who had brought her home, but who was he to correct a woman of faith. “We are happy to have her. She is my first true guest since my taking of Morne Manor.”
“If her appetite holds till morning, I shall send for the chaise,” Septa Roelle assured him.
“Nonsense,” Tyrion replied. “Let her get her strength back. We have plenty of room here at Morne Manor, and I would pracitice being host to a recuperating guest rather than a bedridden one.”
The older woman could not contain her delight. “Oh, Lord Lannister, how mangimous you are. I shall of course write to her father to let him know of her recovery, and will personally go retrieve some more clothing and accouterments for Brienne and myself.”
Thanking him proufsely, Septa Roelle departed back to the Blue Suite to await Bronn and the promised soup. She had barely closed the door behind her when his cousin rounded on him. “Are you mad? You were nearly rid of them. How will you explain their presence when the King arrives?!”
“Firstly, Robert is not due for a month, and it is hardly in his nature to be thoughtful enough to arrive when he claims he will, so he shall either turn up tomorrow unannounced or three years from hence. And as for my guest, Brienne Tarth has been bedridden for days, subject to that,” he indicated toward the departed creature, ”as her only company. If I send her home, I condemn her to more of the same. At least here she has your acerbic wit to distract her from incessant prayers.”
Cersei continued to protest at his mercurial decisions, but Tyrion turned his attention to Jaime. The furrow that had been between his brother’s brow since the storm had disappeared at last and Tyrion noticed there was no protests coming from him. “What say you, Jaime?” Tyrion prodded.
“You amuse yourself,” Jaime replied. “Do not do your guest the disservice of claiming your offer is for her benefit. Her warden is set upon matchmaking, and your extension of hospitality only serves as encouragement. You would have done better to send her home and let her recuperate in the peace of her own home.”
Every word of it was true, which meant Jaime was paying attention.
Interesting.
Even Cersei seemed to note it. “If it will hasten their departure, I shall call upon her myself,” she decided, standing and smoothing her skirts. “Surely the bat will not begrudge me entrance into her ward’s company.”
“I am sure you will find her delighted to receive you,” Tyrion said with confidence. Septa Roelle had made it clear she thought Cersei Lannister was the epitome of a true lady, and had not been shy letting everyone know it. If his cousin ever uttered the word friend in relation to her charge, Septa Roelle would personally crown Cersei as queen of love and beauty. “Perhaps bring some books up. I am sure Miss Tarth tires of staring at the walls.”
Cersei, surprisingly, did as bid, leaving the two brothers alone.
For a long while, there was silence and Tyrion almost thought that was the end of things, when Jaime lay down his cards. “Why?”
Tyrion weighed his words. “Miss Tarth is an unique kind of woman. I find her fascinating and intriguing.”
“You intend to court her?” It was a question. A rarity from his usual direct brother who often told others what they thought and felt before they themselves knew it: a rather annoying habit he had picked up from their father.
Tyrion shook his head. “I meant what I told Father. I have no interest in marriage for the sake of marriage.”
“And yet a maiden is under your roof-”
“Recovering and chaperoned.”
“And you say you find her fascinating.”
“I am allowed to enjoy people without wanting to marry them, Jaime.” Tyrion hopped down from his seat. “Besides, you have been entertaining the woman who clearly intends to be the next Lady Lannister-”
“Our cousin is under my protection-”
“Father’s words do not suit you, Jaime.”
His brother fell silent. Tyrion would have regretted his words if he was not tired of his brother’s blindness. “I merely do no like the idea of someone….someone being alone because they are different. I cannot offer Miss Tarth anything but friendship, but I can offer her that.”
“Do not assume Brienne Tarth is of the same mold as you,” Jaime warned. “She is not in need of protection.”
“Is she not?” Tyrion shot back. “As I recall, you were the one who demanded the apothecary leave his bed in the middle of the night-”
“She had not ceased coughing since her arrival-”
“Jaime,” Tyrion grew somber. “You are the first born son, the golden lion, the heir apparent. You may be prickly and brutish, boastful and self-serving because you are handsome, and rich, and one of the most talented man who has ever stepped foot into a boxing ring- but you cannot begin to understand what it means to be different. Not like I can. Not like Brienne can.”
Jaime did not move, the fire flickering behind him casting his shadow to loom upon the wall. “Did Tysha understand?”
Tyrion tensed. They did not discuss Tysha. He was not sure if their relationship could handle it.
Jaime turned his head, fixing him his green gaze. “Did she see you as I see you? Someone who could be one of the greatest men to ever walk in this world if not for his determination to hide his insecurties behind wit and wine?”
Tyrion knew his brother too well to take the bait. Flattery was not one of their Father's tricks, but shame was. “She saw me for me-” Tyrion managed, but the words were too hard. He was no longer in Morne Manor, but in an inn in the Westerlands, and Tysha was laying upon her stomach, gazing up at him and giggling- A farce, all of it. “Well, so she claimed. She was an excellent actress.”
Jaime turned away. “You are a clever man, Tyrion, but even you can miss the forest for the trees.“
"I am not the blind one," Tyrion replied as the wine burned hot in his cheeks, but Jaime had already taken his leave. "Father would be proud, dear brother," Tyrion called after him. "You are truly growing into the perfect son for him: Blind, deaf, and dumb."
"Dumb, perhaps," Bronn said, joining Tyrion with a bowl of the requested soup in his hands. "Not blind though."
"No," Tyrion agreed with a sigh. "Just short-sighted."