Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It’s a triple dog dare / you’re a chicken if you don’t
Triple Dog Dare - Lucy Dacus

Brienne Tarth did not like showing weakness. She didn’t like people slipping past her defenses, and she definitely didn’t like losing. Which all made for desirable qualities when she was on the soccer field, but they weren’t exactly a recipe for social success. Bit of a sticking point in high school, too, the whole not-being-social thing. Made people look at you funny. If she were anyone else it might have been possible to fade into the wallpaper and avoid notice and the subsequent gamut of teenage ridicule, but by freshman year she’d already shot past six feet tall so inconspicuous was never going to be an option.

Maybe if she’d at least been blessed with a pretty face she could’ve been one of those statuesque girls who got chased down at the local mall by some modeling scout waving a contract under their noses, but the gods were feeling particularly uncharitable when it came to the rest of Brienne, too. Limp blonde hair that never did what she wanted it to, big lips that only served to further emphasize her big teeth—still slightly crooked despite four years of modern orthodontia’s best efforts; a nose that had been broken more than once, the freckles she’d tried in vain to scrub off her skin as a child—ugly was the only way she knew how to describe herself, though of course her classmates could always be counted upon to come up with inventive new words for it.

Over time, she’d gotten better at tuning everyone out and keeping to herself. Which was probably why she was only half-listening to her soccer team’s captain now, as she helped him lock up the equipment room for the night.

“You should come to the party,” Jaime Lannister was saying, shouldering one of the big metal doors open to head outside. Having stayed behind to make sure all the team gear got put back in order, theirs were the last cars left in the senior parking lot, Jaime's shiny red sports car looking ridiculously out of place alongside her beat up old station wagon.

They’d just returned from their championship-winning game—their very last game as seniors, their last time playing together as a team—and they’d fucking won, she couldn’t quite believe it, was still floating on air remembering how she’d felt diving for that last save. But uncertainty roiled within her now as she came to a halt beside her car, pondering the chipped paint below the door handle as she searched for an excuse. They’d already had their team farewell dinner last week with Coach Goodwin and their families at a local Dornish restaurant. That sort of thing was the most she typically socialized with her teammates off the soccer field—and even then, she usually spent the whole meal chatting with her father if he’d been able to get someone to switch shifts with him so he could attend, or silently pushing the food around on her plate if he had not. She’d never gone to an actual party at someone’s house before.

The varsity boys might have accepted her onto the team with more kindness than the JV boys before them, but she’d never wanted to push her luck. She trusted them well enough to have her back during a game, but anything else felt like she was giving too much of herself away.

“We need to celebrate,” Jaime continued. She fiddled with her keys. “The whole team needs to celebrate—that includes you, Tarth. See if you can find it in yourself to endure this one final act of team bonding. Maybe even let yourself have a little fun for a change.”

He was watching her closely as he said it, eyes narrowed and trying to find a way past her guard, like they were back in cleats and this conversation was just another scrimmage.

“In fact, I bet—“

“No bets,” she interrupted.

“Right.” He winced, remembering, but forged ahead anyway. “Then I dare you to come to the party.”

I dare you. Of course he’d turn it into a competition—Jaime had just as much talent as Bitterbridge High School’s star striker as he did for knowing how to get under her skin. How had he known all he needed to do was hold the threat of losing over her head?

Brienne unlocked the door, slinging her duffle onto the passenger seat. “You dare me? What are you, twelve?”

“Quit stalling, Tarth. Are you going to make me double-dog dare you, next? I can keep going.”

She rolled her eyes. He grinned. It was a shit-eating, championship-winning grin, and she hated the way it made her want to say yes. She sighed instead, a defeated burst of air rushing from her nose.

Sensing victory, he took a few backward steps towards his own car, still grinning, eyes still locked on hers. “Nine o’clock, my house. See you there, Tarth.”

That smile of his—it was always very hard to argue with. Even back in their early days as teammates, back when she thought him nothing more than an arrogant trust-fund baby, when he spent twice as much time antagonizing her—back before they’d managed to claw their way to the mutual respect they enjoyed now, he’d flash that smile and it almost always got him his way. It was one of his many annoying qualities.

Brienne watched him drive away in his obnoxiously loud car and considered her options. It was just a stupid dare, she didn’t actually have to play along with this game of his. He’d probably forget about it by Monday, anyway.

And okay, sure, it didn’t actually mean anything, but she hated the idea of Jaime thinking he’d somehow beaten her at something. Not after she’d spent two years relentlessly proving to him and everyone else why she deserved her spot on the team. Surely she could muster the courage to show up for long enough to prove she wasn’t a coward. 

It was just—a party. Of course, it wasn't like Brienne had ever thought to find herself at a high school party. Going to parties was something people with friends did, and she didn’t have any of those.

She struggled to connect with everyone, boys and girls alike. Even back before she’d joined the boy’s soccer team, the girl’s team never seemed to know what to make of her. Already outrageously large and awkward by middle school, she couldn’t blame the other girls for assuming she didn’t share their interest in feminine things.

Brienne had only been four when her mother died, and she secretly longed for someone who could teach her all the things she’d missed out on. She longed for someone who could help her figure out makeup, or how to tame her hair. Someone who could help her pick out an outfit that wasn’t just another variation on athletic gear and wouldn’t laugh at her for wanting to feel pretty, just once. Someone she could stay up late with at sleepovers, painting each other’s nails and giggling about boys. For Brienne, these were just more impossible things to want, things she felt with a bone-deep ache as she added them to an ever-growing list.

At some point she decided that if she couldn’t be girly, and if she couldn’t be accepted as one of the guys—if she was never going to just be normal—she could focus instead on the one thing she was good at. With no social life to speak of, it hadn’t been much of a sacrifice to devote all of her free time to improving herself on the soccer field.

By sophomore year she’d had her eyes set on an athletic scholarship and was done wasting her time with the last-in-the-rankings girl’s team. There had been plenty of objections when she’d decided to go out for the boy’s team instead. Special arrangements had to be made to even allow her to try out, but not even misogynistic old Coach Tarly could deny she’d earned a spot on his junior varsity team.

She’d known becoming the only girl in the history of Bitterbridge High to make the boy’s soccer team would not make her already-difficult school life easier, but she’d been so proud of herself when she saw her name on that roster.

And so naive.

It hadn’t started out so bad. She’d actually been surprised by that, at the time. She should have known better. By the end of the season it had all unraveled in such disastrous fashion that she’d contemplated quitting soccer altogether.

When the first few boys started paying extra attention to her, she thought it was just by virtue of being the only girl on the team. That it didn’t mean anything, only that their raging hormones needed an outlet and she was the only girl-shaped option available. The fleeting kind of interest one might afford to an exotic zoo creature.

Ed Ambrose offered to clean her cleats after practice. Rich Farrow made her a mix of his favorite songs to listen to while running. Ben Bushy offered to carry her duffle back to the coach after an away game. She’d gone down hard on one shoulder making a save, so she assumed it was just run-of-the-mill kindness on his part.

But things grew stranger when they began carrying on with their courtesies outside of soccer. Hugh Beesbury pushed ahead of a line of other students in the cafeteria to pay for her lunch, and kept up conversation all the way to her table. Mark Mullendore, Will Stork and Owen Inchfield took notice, and soon all four boys were arguing over which one of them got to sit next to her.

Hyle Hunt slipped tickets to the local club team’s next match into her locker, after she told him she’d never been able to afford to go to a professional match. That one had meant the world to her.

Still, none of it made sense. Puberty hadn’t performed any miracles as far as Brienne’s appearance went; she was never going to simply grow into her features the way some other girls had. No, the only growing her body ever did was in all the wrong directions—broad shoulders instead of breasts; a thick waist and trunk-like legs instead of dainty curves, and all the rest of her standing head and shoulders above most of her classmates years before they’d hit their own growth spurts. There was simply no logical reason for the extra attention. 

Ron Connington’s big mouth was what ultimately gave the ruse away, one late autumn day.

Torrential rain outside meant the entire JV team was relegated to the weight room that afternoon. Some of the varsity boys had also been filtering in and out, working through their own training programs. She hadn’t even noticed Jaime Lannister come in, until he’d begun arguing loudly with Ron. Ron, who was holding a rose in one hand and trying to shove past the varsity player to get to her. But why would Ron be holding a rose?

Brienne pulled her headphones off in time to hear Jaime say, “Be serious, I know you can’t actually want to go to the dance with her.”

Mortification washed over her instantly at the contempt in his voice. There was no place to hide, no way for her to escape notice as every boy in the room turned an eye towards the brewing argument.

“What, you think just because you made varsity early you can tell us JV guys what to do?” Ron sneered, trying to shake Jaime’s hand off his chest.

“I just want to know what you assholes are playing at.”

Ron shot a furtive glance towards Brienne; a familiar prickle of anxiety began to stir in her stomach.

“Stay out of it, Kingslayer,” he muttered. “It’s nothing to do with you.”

“Oh yeah? You know how I got that name, right?” There was a dangerous edge to Jaime’s voice.

Ron’s eyes swept around the room trying to find some support, but the rest of the team were now slowly slinking away from where he and Jaime stood arguing. 

“Come on, man, can’t a guy ask a girl to the winter formal?” Ron chuckled nervously.

“Well, let me see if I’ve got this right—your whole team has been falling over themselves to cozy up to Tarth over there,” Jaime waved a hand her way, but didn’t take his eyes off Ron, “which, let’s be honest, is a pretty fucking bizarre development.”

Brienne’s stomach plummeted. What he was saying was hurtful, but at the same time she knew he wasn’t wrong. All of the doubt and confusion she’d suppressed over her teammates’ uncharacteristic interest in her came flooding back to the surface.

“And if I put that together with the fact that I just overheard you laughing about how the whole damn lot of you have a bet going to see who can get into Tarth’s pants first, I’m sure you understand why I have some questions about what exactly the fuck is going on.”

She could feel the wave of nausea rising in her throat as every boy in the room guiltily glanced her way—every boy but Jaime, who was still laser-focused on a sheepish Ron Connington. 

“Hey, man,” Ron lowered his voice, shifting his eyes back to Jaime, “we were just having a little fun.”

“Hey, man,” Jaime echoed softly, “fuck you.”

Then he broke Ron’s nose.

Brienne fled the weight room in the stunned silence that followed, face burning in humiliation. She locked herself in a toilet stall and cried into her big, freckled hands, sick to her stomach knowing she would have blindly said yes to Ron had Jaime not revealed the truth first, wondering how she hadn’t let herself realize they’d all been toying with her from the very beginning.

Because she’d always known the truth: teenage boys didn’t care about her goalkeeping skill, or how hard she worked to be able to keep up with them, or how many games she helped them win. They only cared that Brienne was a girl. No, worse—they cared that she was an ugly girl, for there was apparently no greater insult to a teenage boy’s raging hormones than a girl who couldn’t be easily slotted into whatever wet dreams kept their poor mothers busy washing bedsheets every day of the week.

After that she got better at protecting herself. Even if she had to struggle for the rest of the season to fight back tears every time she took the field with her team.

She and Jaime had never talked about it—they’d barely known each other back then, and she wouldn’t have known what to say, anyway. The rest of sophomore year passed without so much as a word spoken between them, so she was startled when he chased her down in the hall on the last day before summer break. But instead of awkwardly offering her platitudes or sympathy, he’d just made sure she knew the dates for varsity tryouts that summer.

Until that moment Brienne had been ready to give up on soccer. But whether he’d meant to or not, Jaime’s gentle encouragement sparked something back to life inside her. So she trained hard all summer, the sound Jaime’s fist made when it cracked across Ron Connington’s nose never far from her mind. By the time tryouts rolled around she managed to outperform every asshole from JV, and it was one of the most satisfying experiences of her life when Coach Goodwin announced her for his varsity team.

She’d still been so intimidated by Jaime then. Wealthy and good-looking, with his sharp eyes and equally sharp tongue, he was captain of the varsity team and their star striker. He was also the only person from their class who’d made varsity all the way back in freshman year, much to the resentment of guys like Ron Connington.

It was hard to reconcile the Jaime who had stopped The Bet with the Jaime people called Kingslayer. The less-than-flattering nickname was usually only whispered behind his back, borne out of the still-swirling rumors about whatever happened between him and Aerys Targaryen freshman year.

Intimidation quickly turned to irritation once they became teammates. Jaime was cocksure and sarcastic and seemed to delight in driving her absolutely crazy—it made her want to believe what everyone said about him. Sometimes she found herself wanting to hate him. But she couldn’t forget what he’d done for her that day in the weight room.

The thing no one else saw, the thing it took Brienne the better part of their junior season to realize herself, was just how much it all mattered to him. He pretended to be aloof, but he was so much more sincere than he let on. He wanted to be the best, and he worked hard for it. He wasn’t going to settle for mediocre. Brienne understood that feeling.

Even with all the gossip surrounding him, Jaime’s skill on the soccer field simply couldn’t be denied. So the whole school cheered his name when their team won, and only muttered Kingslayer behind his back when they lost. She could understand how something like that might make a person prickly. After all, most people didn’t even offer her the courtesy of a whisper, preferring to sling their insults directly at her face instead.

Once she’d made varsity, Brienne’s plan to survive her final two years of high school had been simple: don’t make waves, support your teammates, keep the other team’s ball out of the net. It had been lonely, but only a few of her JV tormentors had made the team along with her so she’d managed to make it through without incident.  

Which was why Brienne knew she was being ridiculous, feeling so nervous about a stupid high school party. Of all people, she knew Jaime wouldn’t be the one to invite her into a trap.

It wasn’t until a little after 9:30 that she found herself heading up his front walk, running late because she’d had to spend all that extra time talking herself into going. She wondered how absurd she looked as she made her way to the enormous wooden double doors of the Lannister mansion, the pair of skinny jeans she’d thrown on at the last minute in place of her usual sweats making her feel like she was trying too hard.

The muffled strains of music and her teammates’ voices filtered out into the night air. Brienne stared into the eyes of the lion-headed door knocker, willing herself to find the courage to go inside. But before she could finish talking herself into it the door suddenly flew open, and she found herself gazing into the kind blue eyes of Renly Baratheon. Brienne’s stomach gave a familiar swoop at the sight of him.

“TARTH!” he shouted loudly—happily—his eyes a little glassy as he grabbed her arm and hauled her over the threshold.

“I thought that was you—guys!” he shouted again, dragging her through the soaring foyer and into the largest kitchen she’d ever seen. “GUYS, look—Tarth is here!”

The rest of her teammates erupted into cheers when they saw her, the wall of drunken boyish excitement hitting her full-on, their excitement so genuine and unexpected she hardly knew what to do with it. She gave them all a little wave, stunned by their reaction. She spotted Hyle Hunt and Owen Inchfield among them, but even they seemed pleased to see her.

“Legs!” Addam Marband suddenly proclaimed, pointing at her jeans. Gods, why did she wear jeans? “Shit, wait, sorry—I am looking respectfully,” he added apologetically, eyes growing comically large.

“You’ll have to excuse Marband,” Jaime’s voice carried from behind her, and she turned to find him leaning against the archway to the kitchen, “Seems like some of us had forgotten there was actually a girl hiding under that goalkeeper uniform.”

Addam nodded sagely, taking a large gulp from the plastic cup in his hand.

Brienne crossed her arms around her middle, feeling more self-conscious than ever. Two minutes into the party and she was already fighting a blush—that had to be a record for her.

Her teammates fell back into conversation and Jaime made his way into the kitchen, giving her an apologetic thump on the arm as he passed. He groped around in the refrigerator for a moment, pulled out a bottle of water and tossed it her way. She caught it easily, goalkeeping instincts taking over.

“I figured you drove here.” He grabbed another one for himself, but gestured to the array of liquor bottles on the counter. She recognized Jaime’s fourteen-year-old brother, Tyrion, standing on a stool and mixing drinks for the older boys.

Off her look, Tyrion winked at her. “I’m really into mixology.”

Jaime placed a hand on his brother’s head, ruffling his hair. “I’m not drinking tonight, so I could drive you home later if you wanted Tyrion to fix you something else?”

Underage drinking aside, Brienne found it oddly sweet that Jaime included his little brother in the party. She knew Tyrion by sight only—his dwarfism made him stand out in school just as much as her hugeness did. And he’d never missed one of their games, face painted and leading the crowd in chanting his brother’s name.

“I’m good with just water.” She unscrewed the lid, took a sip. In truth, she’d never had more than a taste or two of alcohol, and even then only when her father offered her a bit at holidays. “You’re not drinking?”

Jaime laughed, gesturing to the room of boisterous teenage boys. “Someone’s got to keep an eye on them.”

She hadn’t figured Jaime for moderation, given his reputation. Given Aerys.

“Alright,” Jaime raised his voice to the room, “now that Tarth’s here we can get the tournament started.”

More cheers from the assembled group.

“Tournament?” Brienne asked, somewhat nervous even as she felt her competitive curiosity piqued.

“Foosball!” Jaime’s cousin Daven declared in a booming voice, leading the way out of the kitchen.

It would not have been an exaggeration to say the Lannisters could probably give the local arcade a run for its money. In addition to foosball, their finished basement also boasted a pool table, air hockey, several retro arcade machines, skeeball, a dartboard, and a sectional large enough to seat at least ten in front of their massive flat screen tv.

At first, Brienne held herself to the periphery, but watching the others compete felt like she was just at another soccer practice. Before she knew it she was joining in and cheering on the players along with everyone else. When Hyle and Owen lost to Renly and Loras, Jaime flashed her a conspiratorial look.

“Alright Tarth, you and me next.”

She opened her mouth to protest, but Renly had already turned to smile at her and she found herself floating over to join them.

In no time at all she was caught up in the adrenaline of the game, her carefully-forged social armor dropping away enough to actually allow herself to have fun. She and Jaime knocked shoulders as they frantically flicked their rows of players, shrieking in unison as an expertly aimed kick from Loras sent the little plastic soccer ball rocketing past her defensive line and into the goal.

Renly and Loras turned into each other for a celebratory hug, jumping around in victory as they held one another. Jaime was shaking his head and saying something about illegal spinning and rematches, but he was laughing, too.

Brienne sank down onto the couch to catch her breath, still smiling along with them. Renly’s deep blue eyes were full of mirth, his black hair bouncing with each joyous toss of his head as he and Loras continued their victory celebration. It reminded her of how Renly had looked that time he’d danced with her, back in middle school when she still bothered going to dances.

It wasn’t a slow dance or anything, but he’d been the only boy to ask her, and he’d pulled her onto the dance floor and spun her around like she was any other girl. She’d never forgotten how wonderful his act of kindness had made her feel.

Jaime flopped down beside her, tossing the little plastic ball he’d liberated from the table back and forth between his hands. He caught her staring at Renly, and raised his eyebrows. She didn’t like the mischievous shift of his grin. 

“Really? Huh,” he mused. “Tarth’s got a thing for pretty boys. I wouldn’t have guessed.”

Her stomach dropped a little. “I don’t have a thing for anyone,” she lied.

“Well that’s a relief, because you’d be barking up the wrong tree.”

He inclined his head pointedly and she followed it back to where Renly and Loras were still smiling at each other. It was then that she noticed it…Loras tucking a piece of hair behind Renly’s ear, Renly twining their fingers together—her heart clenched, understanding. 

Beside her, Jaime shrugged. “They don’t like to show it at school, but they know they can relax around friends.”

She felt incredibly foolish, and a little brokenhearted, though at least—

“But still—pretty boys? With the shiny hair and the prince charming smile and—”

His next words were muffled as she shoved a throw pillow against his face. He slipped back into the couch cushions, laughing again as he tried to wrest the pillow from her hands. When his face reemerged his smile wasn’t cruel or pitying, as she’d feared it would be. It was the one that could stop a person in their tracks. The one that was hard to say no to. She felt herself smiling back.

“You know, some people say I’m pretty.”

Brienne rolled her eyes. “So humble, too.”

He barked out another laugh and finally managed to wrench the pillow out of her grasp.

“Gods, it smells like a distillery down here.”

Jaime’s eyes slipped from Brienne’s and she followed his gaze to the basement stairs, where his twin sister had just appeared, her disdainful voice carrying over the sound of the party.

Cersei Lannister was as golden as her brother, boasting the kind of stunning beauty that had always eluded Brienne. She wore a wine-red dress that emphasized every feminine curve and caused every head in the basement to turn her way—even Renly and Loras seemed momentarily captivated.

“You’re welcome to join us,” Jaime replied, a bitter edge to his voice. “We’re celebrating our championship win.”

Cersei wrinkled her perfect nose in distaste. “No thanks, I’ll leave you to play with your…friends.” Her eyes landed on Brienne as she emphasized the last word.

Jaime’s face was troubled as his sister disappeared back up the stairs.

“Tarth!” Daven called from across the room, pulling her attention away from Jaime. “Want to tap in for Bronn?” He was standing at one end of the air hockey table, holding a red plastic mallet aloft in invitation.

Welcoming the distraction from how deflated she suddenly felt, Brienne hurried over. She’d managed to forget about it for a little while, but she knew how ridiculous she must seem, a great beast of a girl trying to fit in amongst all these boys. She suddenly felt very silly for even trying—for attempting to tame her boring, straw-colored hair into a limp ponytail, for putting on that pair of jeans instead of the sweatpants she normally wore, for swiping on that tiny bit of lipgloss before getting out of her car. What had she been trying to achieve? Cersei had seen right through her with barely more than a glance. Were the rest of them thinking it, too?

She played a few rounds against Daven, her own bitterness towards herself fueling her game and propelling her to a resounding victory.

Bronn Blackwater had wandered back over to spectate for the last few minutes. He seemed entranced by the flat plastic puck as it snapped lighting fast back and forth across the table.

“Damn, why the hells haven’t you hung out with us until now? That was scary,” he murmured, turning to her. “You’re scary.” 

“Me? No I’m not.”

“Tarth,” Bronn reached up and gripped her face between his hands. Then, seeming to realize this was a mistake, snatched his hands away and crossed them over his chest instead. “You are a very, very good goalkeeper. And you are very, very quiet. And you are very, very tall. That is all very, very scary.”

Daven nodded, agreeing. “Intimidating.”

“You strike fear into the hearts of our opponents! And occasionally make my balls retreat back into my body when you’re calling out directions during games.”

She glared at him and his eyes lit up.

“There! That’s the look!” He pointed at her, noisily sucking air through his teeth. “Balls, gone.”

“Um. Sorry?” She knew her face must be on fire.

“Oh yeah, great big mystery why she doesn’t want to hang out with us when you’re standing there talking about your balls.” Hyle had appeared at her side. “Even I don’t want to hear about that.”

Bronn may have flashed her a rueful smile at that, but she was too busy glaring at Hyle to notice.

“We’re not out on the field Hyle, I don’t need your defense.”

He frowned a little, and she noticed Daven trying to hide a snigger.

“See? Scary!” Bronn was insisting as she walked away. 

The last thing she wanted was Hyle Hunt’s sympathy. Or his company. But, clueless as ever, he trailed after her.

“Hey, Tarth, come on. I thought we were cool?”

She spun to face him. “Are you serious?”

“I mean…you never seemed to have any problems with me at practice or games or anything, so I’m a little confused.”

“Not once in the past two years have you apologized for what you and the others did, and you think we’re cool?”

He at least had the sense to grimace. “You’re really still angry about that?”

She stared at him in disbelief.

“It’s late. I’m going home,” she said flatly.

Grabbing her jacket from the chair she’d flung it over earlier, she hurried upstairs.  

The noise from the basement faded somewhat once she’d made it back up to the deserted foyer. She rested her head against the wall and took a steadying breath, feeling the adrenaline from confronting Hyle fade. Her hands were shaking a little as she pulled her keys out of her jacket pocket.

It was the most she’d spoken aloud about The Bet since it happened. After Ron’s broken nose none of the other participants had been eager to broadcast their involvement by bringing it up again, and she didn’t think Jaime had told anyone about it, either.

Jaime. He’d meant well, inviting her here, and it had been fun—Cersei and Hyle Hunt not withstanding. She should say goodbye to him, at least, but hadn’t seen him in the basement when she’d left. Maybe he’d followed after his sister? Cersei had seemed angry with him.

Brienne peered up the sweeping staircase leading from the foyer to the second floor, assuming Cersei would have retreated up to her bedroom to get away from the noise of the rowdy soccer team. She made it halfway up the stairs herself before thinking better of it, had already turned to leave when she thought she heard the sound of Jaime’s voice carrying from somewhere above her. She crept forward.

“—don’t know what your problem is, tonight.”

“I’ve never seen that hideous girl at any of your other parties,” she heard Cersei reply.

“Don’t act like you didn’t know she’s our goalkeeper.”

“You two certainly seemed close.”

Jaime laughed dismissively. Brienne heard the rustling of fabric, then he spoke again, his voice softer.

“I thought you were going to come to the game, it was a great win.”

“I’ve seen you win before.”

“Yeah, but this was our last game ever. I wanted to find your face in the stands.”

“From what it sounds like you managed just fine without me. Besides, how it would it have looked?”

“It would have looked like my family wanted to support me. You’re too paranoid.”

Cersei scoffed.

“You go to all of Robert’s football games.”

“Yes, I do, because Robert’s my boyfriend and they’re college games.”

Jaime made a low noise of disgust.

Cersei’s tone shifted, lowered. “Besides, you know it’s too hard for me to watch you out there, working up a sweat—how can I be expected to contain myself?”

Brienne’s head filled with a strange, hollow buzzing as she tried to process what she’d just heard. That sounded like…but no—surely not. They couldn’t—it made no sense—

She knew she should leave then, go home and think up some explanation that would help her understand and then immediately forget everything she’d heard, but she couldn’t seem to make her feet carry her away. And Cersei was still talking, in a tone that could only be described as sultry, which made no sense because she was talking to her brother.

“After everyone leaves, I want you to tell me each play, tell me exactly how it felt to win, and then I want you to fuck me so I can feel it, too.”

“Cers—”

Jaime groaned then, and Brienne heard sounds of heavy breathing and, and—

She took off down the stairs, skidding back into the foyer, almost knocking Tyrion over in her haste to get to the door.

“Woah, there,” he said, holding his hands up protectively.

“Sorry! Sorry,” Brienne whispered an apology. Her heart was beating so fast she felt like she might be sick. Where did she put her keys?

“Are you okay? You look—” Tyrion searched her face, then glanced up the stairs, blanching. “Did something happen?”

“No,” she lied. He frowned. “I heard—it doesn’t matter. It’s late, I’m pretty tired, I don’t know what I heard. I really should go.”

He stepped closer, looking up at her pleadingly. “This thing you didn’t hear…you’re not going to tell anyone about it, are you? Because it’s—it’s complicated, and Jaime, he’s—” he searched for the right words, as if there was any right way to explain what she’d just overheard “—it’s not him, okay? She’s the one who’s—and he just wants her to be happy. But they’ll be at different colleges next year, and he’ll finally be free from her. Do you understand?”

She shook her head, feeling sicker by the minute. “I don’t even know how I’d go about—and it’s really none of my business. I’m not going to say anything.” She looked down, met Tyrion’s mismatched eyes seriously. “I don’t want to know anything.”

No, what she wanted was a nice little concussion, so she could wipe the past five minutes clear from her memory and go about the rest of her life none the wiser. That would be the ideal course of action. 

“So I’m going to go home now,” she said, then added a little desperately, “where the fuck are my keys?”

“You’re holding them,” Jaime answered, appearing on the stairs above them.

She looked down at her hand and saw the blue lanyard keychain sticking out of her closed fist, could feel the sharp edge of her keys poking uncomfortably into her palm.

“Oh. Yeah.”

Jaime’s brow wrinkled in concern. “Are you okay to drive? I didn’t think you’d had anything to drink.”

“I didn’t. What makes you think that?”

“Because you just said ‘fuck’ and I didn’t think you knew how to swear.”

“I swear. I swear all the time in my head.”

“If you say so,” he laughed, coming to stand beside his brother. “You sure you’re good?”

“She’s good,” Tyrion answered for her, still watching her warily. “Right, Brienne?”

“I’m good. So good. Super good.” She was babbling now. “I’m just—tired. So I’m going to go.”

Brienne made for the door, but Jaime stopped her with a gentle hand on her forearm.

“Hey, just—I’m glad you came. I mean—” he let go of her, quickly shoving his hands in his pockets “—we’re all glad you came. Really.”

She couldn’t meet his eye. Couldn’t even answer him, just felt herself nodding a little too aggressively.

“Are you sure you’re okay? You seem weirder than usual.”

“I’m always this weird.”

A slight smile pulled at his lips and he tilted his head, peering at her through narrowed eyes.

“Well—see you at school!” Brienne squeaked out, the false cheeriness sounding insane to her ears as she finally ducked out the front door.

She managed to drive to the end of the street as if in a trance, the click click click of her turn signal strangely loud in the otherwise silent car as she idled at the stop sign. She couldn’t understand why she was feeling such an overwhelming sense of disappointment, when she should only be feeling horror and disgust.

The car behind her honked.

See, this is why I don’t go to parties, she thought, taking her foot off the brake and turning for home.

Chapter Text

It was better if she didn’t think too hard about any of it.

Aside from those last few minutes, the party had been—nice. Better than Brienne had hoped it would be, in any case. She’d been shocked when her teammates had seemed genuinely happy to see her there, and it made her wonder how much she’d missed out on over the years. How many potential friendships had she hid from in choosing to wall herself off from her teammates before she’d even given them a chance?

But that was a pointless train of thought. They’d all be graduating in a few months—hardly long enough to make up for all that lost time.

No, it would be much easier to go about the remainder of the semester as if nothing had changed. Which would also make it easier to not think about that other thing. That thing she’d overheard between Jaime and his twin that had kept her awake and staring up at her ceiling long after she’d climbed into bed.

Brienne thought it was a very good plan.

It was almost comical how quickly it fell apart.

Monday rolled around and she was sitting alone at lunch as always, hunched down in the booth she liked, the one that was tucked away in the far corner of the cafeteria where no one would pay attention to her. It was what she did every day at lunch, and it was useful, because it let her get a head start on the next day’s homework to free up more time for her off-season training after school. Today she was slogging her way through a particularly tedious novel for Westerosi Lit, and it was proving to be a pretty good way to take her mind off what had happened at Jaime’s house. Until he sat himself down across from her.

Jaime reached forward and grabbed the remaining half of her sandwich, taking a large bite before she even fully registered what was happening.

“Hey!”

He chewed, swallowed, made a face. “Gods. That is really dismal, Tarth.”

“Give it back, then.” She leaned across the table for the sandwich still in his hand, but he held it out of reach.

“I was gonna go grab something to eat at Hot Pie’s, want to come with?”

“The period’s already half over, and I’ve got Frey’s class after this.”

“Skip it.”

“I can’t—I mean—I don’t cut class—”

“Live a little, Tarth. Come to Hot Pie’s with me, skip the last two periods.” He paused, and she had the sudden impression of a lion stalking its prey. “I dare you.”

He was ridiculous. She couldn’t just skip school—she’d made it four years without getting detention, and she certainly wasn’t interested in getting one now. If she got detention the school would have to call her father, and then she would have to explain why she had most definitely lost her mind. Because why else would she take that risk for Jaime Lannister of all people? What she knew about him should matter to her. It should make her want to never look him in the eye again. It should repulse her. And it did, but—

Brienne slammed her book shut. “Fine. You’re on.”

Tyrion must not have said anything to him, she decided. Jaime was acting far too much like his normal, antagonistic self to know that she knew what he likely didn’t want anyone to know.

Which was—good. There was a moment on the drive to Hot Pie’s where Brienne had the sickening realization that he might have wanted to get her alone to try to explain himself. Trap her in his stupid little sports car and try to discuss it. But no, they just talked about soccer legend Arthur Dayne’s recent retirement announcement. 

To his credit, Jaime had never spread the story of The Bet even when he’d had every opportunity to do so. His silence had undoubtedly spared Brienne further humiliation, and she was grateful to him for it. So she could keep this secret for him, too, even if he didn’t know she was keeping it. Even if she wished she’d never learned it in the first place.

When she chose to think of it like that, it became much easier to sit across the table from him and split a pizza.

“Have you picked a school yet?” He was drowning his third slice in red pepper flakes. “Coach said you’d had a couple offers.”

Three, she wanted to say. Three full-ride offers. I couldn’t believe it and my father was so proud he nearly cried.

She shrugged instead. “Still deciding.”

“Between?”

Her teeth tugged at her bottom lip, hesitant. It felt like bragging. 

“Riverrun, Highgarden, and Winterfell,” she finally answered.

Jaime’s eyebrows shot up, clearly impressed—they were three of the top women’s programs in the country.

“Damn, Tarth, not too shabby.” He leaned back and regarded her with an appraising eye. “Good thing I made you try out for varsity—”

“You didn’t make me do anything, you just told me when tryouts were…”

He grinned around a mouthful of pizza.

She shifted in her seat, crossing her arms over her chest. “What about you, then. Where are you going?”

His turn to act coy.

“Oh come on, Lannister. I dare you to tell me.”

“Okay—” he seemed amused to have his own tactic thrown back at him “—I’m going to University of King’s Landing. But I also had offers from Lannisport, Crakehall and Riverrun.”

An equally impressive list. A third of the current players on the Westeros Men’s National Team had been recruited out of U of KL—going there meant Jaime had a decent shot of becoming a professional athlete someday.

But something in her chest clenched at the idea they could’ve both ended up at Riverrun University. A silly thought—they’d have been on separate teams there and probably wouldn’t have ever even crossed paths. Besides, she didn’t even like him. And she was leaning towards Winterfell, anyway.

“That’s—wow,” Brienne said. “That’s amazing. Congrats.”

“Yeah? Thanks. Wish my family felt that way.” Jaime’s smile had faded into something tight and bitter.

“They don’t want you to go?”

“My father thinks soccer’s a waste of time—wants me to be a poli-sci major and follow in his footsteps to law school. And my sister wants me to go to Lannisport, with her.”

I bet she does, Brienne thought sourly, the slice of pizza in her stomach suddenly feeling like lead.

“Well, Tyrion’s happy for me, at least.” He tossed his balled-up napkin onto his empty plate and tilted his chin up at her. “What’s your hold up?”

“Sorry?”

“Why you haven’t decided, yet. Deadline must be coming up pretty soon.”

“Oh, yeah. It is.” She twisted her napkin in her lap. The truth was, she hadn’t expected to be so spoilt for choice. “They’re all such good programs.”

“Winterfell’s got that new, top-of-the-line training facility though, right? Lot of good players are coming out of that program lately, too.”

Brienne sat up straighter, surprised Jaime was at all knowledgeable about women’s soccer. “That’s the way I’ve been leaning.”

“It’s a great choice. And you should see yourself—your eyes light up just thinking about it. They'd better get a Direwolf jersey ready with your number on it.” He offered her a soft smile before sighing, “Fucking far from King’s Landing, though.”

She wasn’t sure why that mattered. She’d never even been to King’s Landing, and home would be even farther. Winterfell University was way up north and therefore far from everywhere, which had been the main reason she’d been hesitant to make her decision official. University of Highgarden was only a train ride away, so she’d be able to come home on weekends during the off season if she wanted. 

“I just don’t know if I want to be that far from my dad,” she admitted, embarrassed by how childish it sounded. 

“I can’t wait to get away from mine.” Jaime began idly tracing a finger through a heap of oregano that had spilled off his plate. “Not that he’s ever around anyway—always traveling for work or staying late at the office. He couldn’t even be bothered to come to any of our games. Not a single one in four years, can you believe that?” He laughed bitterly. 

Brienne’s heart ached for him. She knew that, like her, Jaime had lost his mother quite young. Her own mother had passed before she’d even been old enough to make memories of her—but it sounded like where Brienne’s father had doubled-down on being present, Jaime’s had distanced himself from his children. Selwyn Tarth worked nights and even though that meant he sometimes struggled to make her games, he’d still sacrificed sleep on more than one occasion to show up for her. He’d been supportive when she wanted to try out for the boy’s team. He worked overtime so she could afford new cleats, or new goalkeeping gloves, or whatever else she needed to pursue her dreams.

Her father had done the same for her older brother Galladon, before they lost him, too. And still, he never wavered. Brienne was all he had left. She needed to make sure all their loss and all his sacrifice had been worth it.

Jaime’s clenched fist was resting beside his plate, and for a wild moment she was overcome with the urge to reach across the table and cover his hand with her own. Luckily their waiter reappeared and dropped the bill between them before she could act on that particular impulse. Jaime snatched it with deft fingers.

“I've got this.” He pulled a credit card out of his wallet even as she was rooting around in her backpack for cash.

“No—I’ve got some money in here somewhere. We can split it.”

Jaime waved her off. “It’s the least I can do when you’re the one tarnishing her perfect attendance record to hang out with me.”

Was that what they were doing? Hanging out? He’d dared her to come, wasn’t it all just some game to him?

Uncertain, Brienne thanked him all the same. She decided to add it to the list of things she wouldn’t think too hard about. 

Brienne was a good daughter. An excellent student. A fucking amazing goalkeeper. She was a rule follower. She always used her turn signals. She’d never even had a late fee from the library.

But Jaime, he was—a bad influence. Whenever he was around she felt her center of gravity shift, drawing her into his orbit with his golden curls, his sharp cheekbones, his even sharper eyes. His white teeth, flashing dangerous as a shark whenever he’d catch her eye and say, “I dare you…”

There was really only so much charm a seventeen-year-old girl could be immune to before she’d begin making objectively foolish choices.

And there was something thrilling about it, too. Maybe it was the way it felt like a secret shared between them, or maybe it was just her competitive nature, but every time Jaime looked at her with that look in his eye her heart leapt into her throat in anticipation.

I dare you… His warm voice rolling over the syllables, the feeling of an electric charge going off under her skin as she wondered what would come out next.

“I dare you to pull the fire alarm,” Jaime murmured, passing her in the hall between third and fourth period.

“I dare you to eat Bronn’s dessert when he’s not looking,” he said, sitting beside her at their new regular lunch table, Bronn, Daven and Addam none the wiser as they carried on talking animatedly around them.

One night he showed up at her house after dinner with a carton of eggs under one arm. “Ron Connington’s stupid fucking truck is parked outside the movie theater.” He held the eggs out to her. “I dare you.”

That one had been particularly satisfying.

Brienne knew she wasn’t nearly as inventive as Jaime when it came to daring him, but he still met each one with a determined glint in his eye.

She dared him to park in Principal Arryn’s spot, to eat the cafeteria mystery meat, to paint his fingernails pink. (He pulled the nail polish off so well she was almost jealous; at lunch he slipped a foot out of his shoe to show her he’d even done his toes, too.)

She dared him to actually do the reading for their Westerosi History class. He quickly turned that one back around on her with “I dare you to help me study for next week’s test,” which somehow led to her spending most of the weekend huddled beside him in the public library, running him through the flashcards she’d made on the War for the Dawn. 

Then there was the morning he was being particularly aggravating, so she dared him not to speak until the end of the day. She found him leaning against her locker after the final bell, a victorious grin on his lips. His voice was a little hoarse from disuse when he was finally opened his mouth to say “Hey, Tarth,” like it was the only thing he’d wanted to say all day.   

Brienne didn’t know why they were keeping it going, or why she was enjoying it so much. Part of her was waiting for it to end, waiting for him to get bored and find some other way to pass the time, some other person to turn his attention to. But another, foolish part of her was beginning to realize he probably wouldn’t even have to say the words anymore, that it was quite possible she’d do whatever he asked of her anyway. It was no longer about the thrill of the competition for her—she was actually enjoying spending time with him. She liked sharing this thing with him.

Why now? She was tempted to ask. Why me?

They’d gone to school together their entire lives, but they’d never been friends. Classmates, yes, cordial teammates, sure, but—this was new. She didn’t understand it, and she wanted to stop questioning it. She wanted to let him have whatever this quasi-friendship was and enjoy it for however long it lasted. And she wanted to stop thinking about how she’d noticed the way his deep green eyes were flecked with gold. How much she liked being able to make him laugh. How she could still remember the exact look on his face in the moment before he broke Ron Connington’s nose.

Those thoughts wouldn’t lead anywhere good.

Placing a dish before her, Selwyn Tarth dropped a quick kiss to the crown of his daughter’s head.

“Happy Nameday, Starlight.”

Brienne glanced down at the fresh stack of pancakes—staring up at her were two blueberries for eyes, a smile made of whipped cream, and a single blue candle flickering in the center where the nose should be.

“Thanks, dad.” She leaned over in her chair to give him a one-armed hug before blowing out the flame.

A nameday breakfast had become tradition for them, ever since her father switched to working nights. She didn’t mind; it was nice to start the day off with him and not have to worry about any special plans later on.

Besides, Brienne didn’t like making a big deal of her nameday. It wasn’t a day that held many happy memories for her. Maybe once, when she was still small and nameday party attendance was determined by a child’s parents more than the child themselves, before she had to worry whether or not anyone would actually show up if she invited them. Or those few years after she stopped bothering with parties, when it was just her and Galladon and their father, singing to her around the horribly-decorated cake Gal always insisted on making himself.

But the news of Gal’s death arrived early on the morning of her thirteenth nameday, though it had actually happened a few days before. It had just taken the army that long to identify the bodies and notify their families.

Brienne stopped seeing the point of celebrating, after that. All she wanted for her eighteenth nameday was breakfast with her father and good weather for the other tradition she had made for herself. But that one would have to wait until the afternoon.

So she ate her pancakes, hugged her dad again before he went up to bed, and tossed a towel into her backseat before heading to school. Just another day.

School was usually a good distraction from whatever feelings her nameday threatened to bring to the surface, though today Mr. Pycelle’s lesson on agriculture in post-Dragon Age Westeros was proving to be drier than the actual drought he’d been describing. 

She felt her attention slipping even as she tried to diligently copy Pycelle’s words into her notebook, her eyes slowly drifting to stare out the window for longer and longer periods. The parking lot was within view from her seat; she could just make out the roof of her station wagon glinting in the sun.

The year was almost over, she reasoned. She’d already signed with Winterfell, she could get away with a couple more unexplained absences.

That was the other thing about Jaime being a bad influence—it had become much easier for her to fantasize about doing something reckless, like heading out to her car after the bell and skipping the rest of the school day.

Her thoughts of truancy were interrupted when Lollys Stokeworth surreptitiously reached a hand across the aisle to slide a little folded up piece of paper onto Brienne’s desk. Tarth was scrawled across the outside in a familiar hand. 

Her pulse quickened as she unfolded the note.

Happy Nameday—I dare you to do something fun today.

There was no signature, but of course she knew who it was from. How had Jaime known it was her nameday?

She swiveled in her seat to find him across the classroom. He was spread out over his desk,  chin resting atop his crossed arms, and when he felt her looking he flashed her a grin. It felt like he was granting permission. It was all the encouragement she needed.

He was waiting for her outside the classroom after the bell rang, even though she was always one of the last students to finish packing up.

“Soooo,” Jaime said, drawing the word out as they set off down the hallway together, “what fun thing are you going to do today?”

Brienne was still holding his note in her hand, confused.

“How did you know it’s my nameday?”

“Soccer captain, Tarth. I have access to the deep knowledge.”

Oh, right. Of course. That made sense. More sense than if he’d—if he’d sought it out, or if he’d—

“Well?” he prompted, interrupting her absurd train of thought.

“Um, actually there’s this spot I go to every year. It’s a short hike, out past the old post office.”

Jaime’s interest seemed piqued. “Cagey as ever.”

“I’m not being cagey.”

“Would you mind company?”

Normally, she would. But if it was Jaime—

“I was thinking of going now. Do you have a test or anything, or can you skip?”

He let out an exaggerated gasp. “Brienne Tarth, are you asking me to ditch school? I’ve created a monster.”

She gave him a playful shove, rolling her eyes. “Are you coming or not?”

“Oh, like I would miss this. Let’s get the fuck out of here.” 

Brienne drove to the the back edge of the empty parking lot, not far from where she knew there was a gap in the old chain-link fence that had been put up to separate the asphalt from the woods beyond. Jaime gave her a quizzical look, but followed her out of the car. She grabbed the towel she’d thrown into the backseat that morning and set off for the fence, pulling back the broken bit for Jaime to slip through first.

“Are we breaking onto federal land?” He sounded more excited than apprehensive as she rolled the fence back into place behind them. “What’s back here?”

“You’ll see.”

“You’re not taking me out here to murder me, are you?” he joked. “Because I’m pretty sure I could take you in a fight.”

Brienne snorted. “Oh, fat chance.”

She set out into the trees with Jaime happily trudging along behind, light conversation flowing easily between them. There was no real path here, only a slight indent in the undergrowth and her memory from years past to point the way. The weather was as perfect as she could have hoped for—blue skies, sun shining, a warmth on the breeze that was settling into her bones like the comfort of an old sweater. Spring was in full swing; the world was waking back up again, and everything around them was green and blooming and full of life. Brienne inhaled deeply, the sweet scent of new growth washing over her.   

When the sound of rushing water grew louder she knew they were close.

“No shit?” Jaime sped up when he heard it, and after another few minutes they arrived at a break in the trees.

A small gorge opened up ahead of them, the craggy grey rock split in two by a ribbon of clear blue water below. The waterfall they could hear was still a little ways upstream, but it wasn’t what she'd come here for. 

“Come on, it’s this way.”

Brienne picked her way along the edge of the gorge, the sound of the waterfall fading somewhat as they left it behind. The cliff eventually sloped down into a long flat ledge that jutted out over a wider section of calm, deep water.

“How’d you find this place?” Jaime breathed.

“My brother found it. I started coming here every year on my nameday, after he died.”

Jaime came to an abrupt stop behind her. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know.”

Brienne shrugged, glancing back at him. “It was a long time ago. He—” she trailed off. She’d never spoken about Galladon to anyone, but found she wanted to tell Jaime. She trusted him enough to let him see that piece of herself.

Crouching down, she sought out the spot where her brother had chiseled their names into the stone all those years ago. The letters were sloppy and uneven, but they were his. A physical reminder, something tangible she could place her hand on and feel the echo of his presence within.

“He was six years older than me, but Gal was always good about including me in stuff. He was a lot of fun.” Her fingers traced the crooked outline of his G. “He enlisted right after he graduated and was deployed to Astapor during the Liberation. And, well…”

Brienne stood, hardly daring to look Jaime’s way and see his reaction. She walked instead to the cliff’s edge, peering over it to the water some fifteen feet below.

“We’d come out here with a picnic in the summer and spend whole days down in the swimming hole. But Gal’s favorite part was always jumping in.”

She felt Jaime arrive at her side and turned to watch his face as he craned his neck to peek over the edge. The breeze slid through his shining blonde hair like a caress, and her fingers twitched at her side. When his eyes slid to hers she felt herself smiling.

“I dare you to jump with me.”

For the first time she saw genuine hesitation in his expression.

“How deep is it?”

“Deep enough.” She liked seeing him nervous. Liked having the tables turned for a change. “Am I going to have to break out the double dog dare?”

He bit back a grin. “Fuck no, I’m not a chicken. Let’s do this.”

Brienne took a few steps back from the edge and dropped the towel to her feet.

“Um.” Her stomach gave a sudden flip, though it had nothing to do with the height—she’d somehow forgotten this next part. “We can leave our clothes here, it’s an easy climb back up. Just don’t look while I’m undressing.”

Jaime rolled his eyes, but turned his back to her.

“So modest.”

She stepped out of her sneakers and quickly pulled her t-shirt over her head. As she was stuffing her socks into her shoes she furtively glanced his way. He’d already discarded his own shirt and had dropped to one knee to work on the laces of his shoes. The bare expanse of his back faced her, his well-defined muscles bunching and flexing under his skin with every slight movement. Her eyes danced over the the taught line of his neck, the curved planes of his shoulder blades, the small brown birthmark sitting low on his spine.

Brienne realized she was staring when his hands moved to the button of his jeans, and she looked away as if burned. She felt hot all over as she tugged her sweatpants off, standing nervously in just her sports bra and cotton underwear.

Jaime had finished stripping as well, still facing away from her in his crimson boxer briefs. He was holding his jeans in his hands as he leaned forward to look over the edge again. Her heart began pounding frantically in her chest.

She really needed to get a grip. 

“You’re sure it’s safe?” he asked, only turning his head enough to let his voice carry back to her.

“You sound scared, Lannister.”

His laugh had a hysterical edge to it. “Yes I’m fucking scared, it’s a long way down!”

“See you at the bottom, then,” she replied, rushing past him with a burst of speed and leaping off the ledge.

The thrill of jumping never lessened, no matter how many times she did it. The anticipation swirling in her chest in the run up to the edge, the feeling of the hard stone underfoot giving way to nothing but open air, the swoop in her stomach as she plummeted into the cool water below. She hadn’t been brave enough to make the jump when Galladon was still alive, no matter how many times he’d tried to coax her over with him. She didn’t understand it until he was gone, the feeling of letting go. The fear, and the freedom.

Brienne plunged into the water like a missile and shot back up to the surface, roughly pushing wet hair out of her face in time to catch the slightly stunned look on Jaime’s face.

“Well?” she shouted up to him, eyebrows raised with a familiar challenge.

Jaime locked eyes with her, and for a brief moment she felt the swoop in her stomach again. An echo of falling.

He took a few steps back and she lost sight of him for a moment, then with a shout he was suddenly in the air above, knees pulled to his chest in a cannonball as he flew off the cliff to hit the water beside her with an enormous splash.

He was laughing when he broke the surface, warm and genuine. The chill of the water sent a shiver down her spine.

“Fuck!” he shouted. “That was a rush.”

Brienne couldn’t help but smile at his delight. She treaded water beside him, wholly incapable of tearing her eyes away from his face as he used both hands to slick his sodden curls back. 

“You could’ve warned me about how chilly the water was, though.”

“And given you an excuse not to jump?” she teased.

Jaime narrowed his eyes in faux-outrage. “Are you implying I’d be too chicken for a little cold water?”

“Well, you Lannisters are known for your creature comforts—your heated pools, your expensive little cars, your—”

He cut her off with a splash of water to the face.

“Oh, big mistake,” Brienne sputtered, water dripping off her nose. She heaved herself forward to splash him back.

But Jaime ducked under before she could reach him, and without warning his strong hands were gripping her waist and she was being lifted halfway out of the water. Gasping at the sudden contact, she barely managed to think about squirming her way out of his hands before he was releasing her, heaving her from his grip to come crashing back down into the water a foot or two away.

“You were saying?” His eyes were sparkling like two shining emeralds as he kicked away from her—a chase. An invitation.

Brienne launched herself over to him without hesitation, pressing her hands against his broad shoulders to push him under. He immediately twisted and shot up like a cork, turning around to return the favor. 

It devolved into an all-out battle, then. They wrestled in the water, shrieking with equal parts surprise and hilarity, too evenly matched for either one to really get the upper hand; until she somehow found herself in Jaime’s arms, panting from exertion, her face mere inches from his own as she struggled to push him back underwater.

He managed to wrest his head from her hands and their eyes met. She could feel the way the tension in his body suddenly shifted—no longer defensive, but somehow taut and pliant all at once. One arm was thrown out to keep them afloat and the other flexed around her middle, his fingers very deliberately pressing into the skin at her waist. Brienne let her hands slip from his shoulders to lay flat against his chest, not quite pushing herself away, trying to make sense of the look on his face.

Warmth spread through her limbs, across her chest; it crept up her neck to blossom over her cheeks, and she remembered herself. Remembered her body, the hulking mass of her that was just as big as he was if not bigger, the thick muscle at her waist where he’d have found a curve on any other girl. She did push herself away then, gently, and Jaime blinked. His eyes shifted to something more guarded, releasing her as if he was surprised to find himself holding her in the first place.

Brienne felt him watching as she let herself float away, hoping to put some distance around whatever just happened.   

“So it’s official, right? Winterfell?” he asked quietly.

She nodded, grateful for something to talk about. “I think it will be good to be somewhere where no one knows me. Get away from here and people like Ron Connington and…and everything.”

Jaime titled his head and smiled sadly. “Yeah, I get that. I’m looking forward to not being the Kingslayer anymore.”

“Why do they call you that?” Brienne quickly dipped her chin into the water, somewhat embarrassed that the question had slipped out.

“I’m sure you’ve heard everything already.”

Of course she’d heard the gossip, knew the way it colored how so many people thought of him—but she’d never known where the truth ended and the rumors began.

“Yes, but I’ve never heard it from you.”

He inhaled sharply, flicking his eyes to her briefly before lifting them up to the sky. He was silent for so long Brienne started to worry she’d overstepped, when he finally let out a ragged breath and began speaking.

The words started falling out of him, like he’d been waiting all this time for somebody to simply ask.

“Aerys was—untouchable. He walked around school like he owned the place—I mean, his nickname was The King, no wonder he thought he could get away with anything. All anyone ever wants to remember is what an amazing athlete he was. Did you know he’d been offered a contract with the Dragons and was skipping college to go straight to the professional leagues? It was unheard of.”

Something dark came over his face.

“Everyone wanted to keep what happened hushed up, after. For the sake of his family, for the sake of his legacy—nobody wants to remember the other stuff. No one talks about how parties used to end with him punching holes in walls. How he thought it was funny to slip things into girls’ drinks. People think I should feel sorry for what happened to him, but I’m just sorry it didn’t happen sooner.”

“Our families went way back—we’d vacationed together since we were kids, and I thought we were friends. But like everyone else, I’d looked past a lot of things. When I made varsity freshman year, Aerys was captain. I should’ve known he’d want to bring back hazing even though it had been banned by the school—who would stop him? No one on the team wanted to stand up to The King, guys looked up to him like he was some kind of god. And he—it was too much. He took it too far, the way he took everything too far. The whole team was drinking, but what he made us new guys do—it was dangerous. So I held back, made him think I was drinking more than I was. We were friends, so he didn’t really get on my case about it. But the other guys were all in pretty rough shape by the end. Brandon had blacked out and I couldn’t get him to wake back up—I knew he needed help but Aerys was just…laughing about it.

“So I said I was going to the bathroom, but I snuck upstairs to one of the bedrooms instead and called for an ambulance. I didn’t realize he’d followed me. He grabbed the phone out of my hand while the dispatcher was still on the other end, and he just—lost it. Started ranting and raving, shouting about loyalty and threatened to kick me off the team. He tried to throw a punch at me and missed, which only made him angrier. Then he ran at me, and I ducked out of the way, but he—he had momentum going and he couldn’t stop. Not until he crashed through the second-story window and cracked his head open on the driveway below.”

Brienne’s breath caught in her lungs and she brought a hand to her mouth, horrified. The sun had shifted in the sky, the shadows of the tall rocks above them were slowly engulfing Jaime while he spoke.

“I was frozen, staring down at him on the asphalt, waiting for him to get back up and shake it off even as the blood began to pool around him. And by then the ambulance I’d called was on its way, and the other guys heard the sirens getting closer. They were freaked out, sure it was the cops coming to arrest everyone for underage drinking. When they all ran out of the house they found Aerys laying there…and when they looked up…” 

She could picture it clearly, Jaime standing in the broken window, not a scratch on him, the lifeless, bloody body of their team captain below. It would have been easy to jump to conclusions.

“The ambulance came, pronounced him dead right there in the driveway. Got Brandon to the hospital in time and pumped his stomach. Of course the cops came, too, brought me in for questioning. I guess my father’s good for one thing, though—he made sure no charges were ever brought, made sure I came out of the whole thing clean.” He laughed dully. “But he couldn’t stop the gossip, and pretty soon the whole school knew I was the reason The King was dead.”

“You saved Brandon’s life,” Brienne said softly.

Jaime rolled his shoulders, bitterness twisting his features. “Yeah, well, his family moved away after that. All anyone remembers is that I killed Aerys Targaryen.”

“You didn’t kill him.”

“Maybe I didn’t push him, but he wouldn’t have died that night if it wasn’t for me.” He worked a muscle in his jaw, his eyes hard. “And I don’t regret it.”

Brienne wanted to touch him. She wanted to wrap her arms around him and hold him together until he forgot the name Kingslayer. Until he felt whole again.

She spoke instead, something that had been bubbling inside her for years. “I’d wondered why you stopped them—stopped Connington and The Bet. It’s because you thought they were hazing me, like Aerys had done with you.”

Jaime startled, coming back to himself. “I stopped them because they were doing a really shitty thing, and because you deserved to be treated better than that.”

Brienne didn’t know what to say.

“You know Connington’s parents wanted me to get expelled? Of course my father pulled some more strings, and I only got a week of detention.” He flashed her a large, false smile.

“I never even thanked you,” she murmured.

“Shit,” he sighed suddenly, blinking away the startling intensity that had settled into his gaze.

He ran his hands over his face like he was trying to wipe the memories away, grimacing as he slicked back his damp hair. “Some nameday, huh? Sorry I’m such a fucking downer.”

“No, I’m glad you came.” Brienne shook her head and offered him a small smile, hoping it was enough to convince him.

“And in the spirit of honesty—” she continued, barely able to handle how open his face was as he looked at her now, the rawness of his expression. She needed to break the tension. “—I’m freezing. Has anyone ever told you how long-winded you are? This water hasn’t gotten any warmer, Lannister.” 

Jaime’s face broke into a sudden, wide smile, his eyes crinkling with the sincerity of it. He followed as she swam over to a low-hanging rock and pulled herself out of the water. Shivering a little when the air hit her wet skin, she bent to offer him help up.

His eyes took a long moment to find her outstretched hand. She’d forgotten their mutual state of undress, blushing when she realized she was towering over him, dripping wet, in only her underwear. She wasn’t any more naked than if she’d been wearing a bathing suit—but it somehow felt more intimate, more private, with Jaime’s eyes drifting over the thin material of her sports bra, over the crescent moon pattern on her panties.

She should tell him off, make a joke about her flat chest not being anything worth staring at, make some other disparaging comment about her own body before he could think to do it first. But her mouth had gone strangely dry. Her skin prickled into gooseflesh when he finally grasped her hand, and she really wished she could blame her body’s reaction on the cold water.

“Towel,” she murmured, dropping his hand as soon as he found his footing.

The large slabs of rock formed a jagged sort of staircase back to the ledge they’d jumped from. Brienne hurried up them, desperate to pull her clothes back on. She reached for the towel first and wrapped it tight around herself, thankful it had been sitting out in the sun as it warmed her.

She managed to dry off as best she could and dressed again, but Jaime still hadn’t joined her. Either he was being incredibly cautious climbing back up, or he hadn’t even followed.

“Jaime?” she called out. “Are you okay?”

His voice carried up to her from below. “Just giving you your privacy, Tarth. Like before.”

Oh, right.

“Um, well I’m all set now. You can come up.”

“Toss me the towel, first?”

She carried the slightly-damp towel over to the top of the stone steps, and saw Jaime waiting about halfway up with his back to her.

“Hey, catch.”

She lingered long enough to watch as he half-turned to pluck it out of the air, then went back to wait for him on the sun-warmed rock.

He appeared a few moments later, the towel wrapped loosely around his waist, one hand holding it in place as he strode over to his pile of clothes. Brienne closed her eyes and tipped her head back to feel the sun on her eyelids as he dressed.

They made their way back to her car in companionable silence, the sun a little lower in the sky than when they’d arrived, the shadows of the trees a little longer.

Jaime finally broke the silence when they pulled onto the main road.

“Snacks?” He pointed hopefully to a gas station mini-mart up ahead. “We skipped lunch.”

As if on cue, her stomach rumbled in agreement.

A bell tinkled above them as Jaime held the door open for her. The cashier perked up at their entrance, and Brienne almost laughed at the way the boy’s mouth fell open a little at the sight of Jaime. She couldn’t blame the guy. Jaime was somehow the only person she’d ever seen look just as good under fluorescent lighting, his eyes somehow even greener, his lithe frame gleaming and golden as ever while he casually weaved his way through the aisles ahead of her. 

Brienne picked up a protein bar and soon found herself distracted by the back of his neck, entranced by the way his damp hair curled over his skin, eyes following a rivulet of water slowly blazing a trail towards the collar of his shirt. He turned and smiled at her. Her heart gave a wild thump against her ribs.

Oh no.

“Which one?” He was holding a different package of snack cakes in each hand, awaiting her answer.

“Um.” Brienne glanced between the chocolate and the butterscotch, feeling flustered. She pointed at the latter.

“Excellent choice!” He tossed the chocolate back on the shelf. “Alright, give me your stuff so I can pay. I’ll meet you at the car.” He held out his arms and she dumped the items she’d chosen into them, grateful for the excuse to get some air. 

Her brain was buzzing as she sat in the driver’s seat waiting for him. She couldn’t possibly have a crush on Jaime Lannister. He was nothing like Renly. He was—aggravating. Impulsive. Reckless and wicked. Too smug for his own good. And there was that…thing she’d overheard. No girl in her right mind would have a crush on a guy like that.

She watched through the side mirror as he sauntered back over to the car, casually leaning his elbows over the open passenger-side window instead of climbing in.

“It’s still so nice out, let’s eat our snacks outside.”

She felt herself nodding in agreement and lumbered out to sit with him on the hood of the car.

Jaime was doing something with the bag beside her, she could hear him rustling around, but she didn’t think she could bring herself to look at him yet. 

“Ta-da!” he declared, leaving her no choice. Her eyes met his radiant smile before falling to his hands. 

He was holding the little butterscotch cakes he’d had her pick out, a candle in the shape of a “1” burning in one and an “8” in the other. 

“I won’t torture you with my singing, but you should still make a wish.”

Her breath hitched and she found his eyes again, speechless.

“Happy Nameday, Brienne.”

If only he knew how impossible her wish was. But she closed her eyes to blow out the candles anyway and saw herself falling, falling into a sea that glittered emerald green instead of blue, with water as warm and buoyant as the smile that lit up his face.

She was so screwed.

Chapter Text

If Jaime was being completely honest, he hadn’t given much thought to life after high school. Yes, he’d made sure to put in the work to get into a good soccer program, but when it came to everything else he’d always felt like he had all the time in the world—that the years would never pass, that the relative comfort of his life would never change—until suddenly he was playing his last high school match, graduation and the threat that everyone he’d ever known would soon be scattered to the winds was looming ever nearer, and he couldn’t shake the overwhelming sense that nothing would ever be the same again. Bizarrely, underpinning it all was Brienne Tarth and the realization that he’d never bothered to find out what was going on behind those expressive blue eyes of hers.

He couldn’t even really explain it, just that when that whistle blew at the end of their championship game and the whole team ran at him to celebrate he caught sight of her, holding herself to the edges, the world’s most honest smile transforming her plain face, and he thought it might have been the first time he’d ever seen her look truly, unreservedly happy. He couldn’t get the memory of that smile out of his head the whole bus ride home, and wondered why he’d never gotten to know her better.

Jaime hadn’t intended to make a thing of it, the first time he dared her; he’d just wanted her to celebrate with the rest of the team and it seemed like the only way to get her to come. Brienne had kept herself at such a distance for so long, and though he understood why she’d done so, he also couldn’t help but feel like there was some invisible countdown clock following him around now, a constant reminder of how little time they had left.

Time for—what, he didn’t quite know. He’d never been one to examine his impulses. He knew that was a door best left closed.

It didn’t start with Aerys, but it always came back to him; the innocence he’d shattered, the anger he’d left in his wake, each whisper of Kingslayer a bitter reminder that he’d always be defined by that awful night. Aerys’ death had given Jaime a reputation he couldn’t shake, and it pissed him off immensely.

So he leaned into it. He could be the heartless asshole everyone thought he was, and channel whatever else he was feeling into becoming an unstoppable force on the soccer field. If he was the best, maybe everything else would eventually stop mattering.   

Still…there were the quiet moments when it all came back to him, when it weighed on him. When he would’ve liked to stop pretending for once and actually talk about it.

There had been a time when he tried. First with his father, who’d declared it nothing more than weakness—Jaime didn’t know what he’d expected from the man who’d grown ever more detached from his children the longer his wife stayed dead and buried. The idea of having an open and honest conversation with Tywin Lannister was laughable, at best.

Then there was Tyrion—Tyrion, who might have listened, but was far too young, things already too hard for him without Jaime adding to the burden.

Ultimately, he’d turned to Cersei—his twin, his mirror, the other half of his soul—if she couldn’t understand him, who would? Of course she had never been one for unpleasantness, quieting him first with eye rolls then later with kisses, discovering the ways she could soothe him with her body where she lacked the words until he found himself living for it, craving the way he could so easily lose himself to her love and ignore everything else.

He never felt like he could ask for what he wanted, so he took what others were willing to give.

Which was why finally getting to know Brienne had been so—unexpected. There was something he could relate to in the shuttered expression so often masking her face. Whenever they had reason to speak he felt like she was truly listening to him, and he hadn’t realized how nice it would feel to be heard.

Ever since that day at the swimming hole he’d found himself haunted by the way she’d looked at him, the way her gaze had cut across the surface of the water as he stripped himself to the bone before her, how her big blue eyes were filled with so much…something, that he’d very nearly made a fool of himself just to get her to close them again.

That had been a bit of a shock, finding out that the confusion wasn’t just limited to his mind—his body didn’t seem to know what to do with her, either, reacting in a way he would’ve thought impossible given the chill of the water. Aside from all the other reasons it should have been impossible.

Because—well, he’d only ever wanted Cersei. Her beauty, the escape she granted him, the way he only ever felt at peace when he was inside her.

At least Brienne didn’t seem to have any idea of the condition he’d found himself in, innocently handing him the towel, oblivious to the way the freckled expanse of her exposed skin had stirred something awake low in his belly, how the sight of her peaked nipples pressing against the fabric of her sports bra had made him instantly, inexplicably hard.

Prior to The Bet he’d never really taken much notice of her, though she stood out more than most. He knew who she was, of course, in the peripheral way anyone knew someone they’d been going to school with their whole life.

He made a point of watching a few JV games after breaking Connington’s nose. Realized she had more talent in her little finger than most of her asshole teammates put together, which probably accounted for why they’d been so desperate to take her down a peg. But Jaime was determined to lead his team to a championship win before graduating, and JV’s loss was his gain when Brienne showed up at varsity tryouts that summer.

She was quiet as a mouse and timid as anything—a bizarre contradiction, given the sheer size of her—but he quickly learned which buttons he needed to press to get a rise out of her, to nudge her closer to the killer goalkeeper he knew she was capable of becoming.

And somehow, he’d now managed to coax her into friendship, too. Except they hadn’t actually spoken since her nameday, and she hadn’t come to lunch all week. Which could be a total coincidence. Or it could be that he’d ruined everything when he’d let his soul bleed out into the water between them without a thought toward the damage it might do. He’d hoped to wrangle her into a conversation after history class, as he’d so often done lately, but these past few days she was packed up and out the door almost as soon as the bell rang.

He felt her sudden absence now like a hollow void, and was surprised by how much it hurt.

Trying not to notice Brienne hadn’t joined them for the third day running, Jaime took his seat between Daven and Addam at their usual table in the cafeteria. He hadn’t brought lunch, and he didn’t feel like standing on line to buy one, either. He supposed he wasn’t hungry.

Daven was already tucking into a plate of chicken tenders, glancing at Jaime’s slumped form as he dipped one into some ketchup.

“You do something to Tarth?”

Jaime jolted a little in his seat. “Why are you asking me?”

Daven shrugged. “Because Addam and I have Econ with her and when we asked where she’s been she got all weird. And because Taena Merryweather’s been telling anyone who will listen that she saw you guys leaving school together the other day.”

“And?” Jaime sneered. Taena was Cersei’s best friend, and apparently a sniveling little gossip, too.

“And nothing,” Daven replied. “Just thought since you seem to know her better, she might have said something to you.”

“She’s in the library,” Bronn offered, sitting down across from them. “At least that’s where she said she was going when I saw her in the hall just now.”

Jaime was on his feet in a flash. All three of his friends looked up at him, surprised.

“I’ll just—I’ll go see what’s up.”

“Tell her we miss her!” Addam offered.

“Tell her she still owes me a cookie,” Bronn shouted after his retreating form. “I know she was the one who stole it!”

The library was uncomfortably quiet when Jaime stepped through the doors. He made his way over to the circulation desk, the librarian behind it barely looking up from the stack of books she was stamping at his arrival.

“Did you happen to see Brienne Tarth come in here?” he asked, gesturing vaguely to a spot an inch or two above his own head. “Blonde, freckles everywhere, unreasonably tall?”

The librarian looked at him blankly.

“My job is to help you check out books, not girls.”

Jaime sighed, pushing himself back from the desk. Fine. He’d find her himself.

The rows of bookshelves were nearly deserted as he wound his way through them, surprised by how large the library actually was. In four years at Bitterbridge High he’d rarely had reason to come inside—Tyrion was the brother better-suited to things like books and research.

He turned down yet another aisle and sensed movement the next row over, crouching a little to scan the gaps between books to see if he could spot the person on the other side. And then—yes, there she was; he caught a flash of the freckled skin of her neck through a hole in the shelf. He’d have to go blind before he’d be able to mistake her.

“There you are,” he muttered, tilting his head so his face was level with the gap. “It took fucking forever to find you in here.”

Brienne jumped at his voice, her blue eyes peering through the shelf at him a moment later, round with surprise.

He grinned, quickly ducking around the end of the aisle to join her. She looked slightly panicked as he approached.

“Are you okay?” Jaime asked, hoping she couldn’t hear the insecurity in his voice. “You haven’t come to lunch all week. The guys are wondering where you’ve been.”

She shifted on her feet.

“I’m fine, I’ve just been…catching up on work.”

“It’s the last semester of senior year, are teachers even assigning homework anymore?”

“I don’t want to let my GPA slip.”

“If you say so, nerd.”

Leave it to Brienne to be the only one in their grade immune to senioritis.

“Just because school’s some big joke to you—”

“I was kidding!” He frowned, annoyed by her defensiveness. “Look, I understand if I scared you away with all that stuff about Aerys the other day, but I thought you were at least…I don’t know, honorable enough to tell me to my face if you’ve decided you’d rather not be friends with the Kingslayer anymore.”

“Jaime, that’s not—”

Her brows knit in concern and he found himself leaning towards her, hopeful.

“You didn’t scare me away,” she said softly.

He immediately felt—lighter, somehow. Relieved. When had he started letting himself care so much about anyone’s opinion?

“Yeah?” Jaime smiled. “Ok, cool. Good.”

Now that he’d gotten his answer he could leave her to it. Rejoin the guys at lunch and listen to Bronn roast Daven over getting another speeding ticket, or whatever today’s topic of conversation would end up being. But Brienne was offering him a rare smile, and he hadn’t be able to tease her for days.

“Sooo whatcha doing?” he asked, playfully tugging on the loose strap of her backpack. 

She quickly reached a hand out and pulled a book off the shelf.

“I told you, I’m studying.”

He plucked the book from her hands and read the title aloud, “The Art of the Erotic: A History of Dance and Sex in Dothraki Celebration.”

Her blush was immediate and all-consuming, spreading as fast as the grin lighting his own face. It had only been a few days, but he’d missed how easily he could draw it out of her. She grabbed the book back from him, clearly mortified.

“Anthropology paper,” she ground out, pushing past him and out of the aisle.

“So Tarth’s been skipping lunch to look at porn in the library,” he mused, chuckling as he followed her over to an area of tables and chairs. “You never fail to surprise.”

Dutifully ignoring him, Brienne took a seat and opened the book to the forward. Jaime dropped his backpack on the table and sprawled out in the empty seat next to her, admiring her ability to double down on what had so clearly been a completely random book selection. He always found it hilarious to watch as she tried to stammer out a lie, when the beet red cast to her face so easily revealed the truth. She really could be so stubborn.

He was going to have so much fun with this.

“So, dancing,” Jaime began. “Is this a long-time hobby of yours, or a recent interest?”

“Are you always so judgmental of other cultures?” Brienne asked lightly. “Dance is a form of artistic expression, it’s always been very important to the Dothraki way of life. You shouldn’t laugh just because it doesn’t align with our delicate Western sensibilities—”

She turned the page and was greeted with a shockingly vivid illustration of Dothraki men and women gyrating against one another in various states of undress.

Jaime leaned over her shoulder and let out a low whistle.

What little of her blush had managed to fade swiftly reignited, her face going so red it was nearly glowing. Defeated, she pushed the book into his hands.

“Delicate sensibilities, indeed.” He began flipping through the pages with interest.

“I can’t believe the library would carry something like this,” she murmured, aghast.

Jaime hummed in agreement, tilting his head for a closer look at a particularly obscene depiction of what could only be described as a public orgy.

An idea occurred to him.

“Well, now that I know you’re such a big fan of the art of dancing, you’ve left me with no choice but to dare you to save a dance for me at prom.”

Her mouth opened and closed a few times as she searched for an answer, looking like a particularly rosy fish.

“Jaime…I can’t.”

He rolled his eyes. She was always so literal.

“I mean a normal dance,” he clarified, “not this Dothraki shit. We don’t want to traumatize everyone.”

Brienne’s eyes had fallen to her hands, clasped tightly in her lap.

“No—I can’t dance with you because I’m not going to prom.”

He blinked at her. “Wait, really?”

“I mean…I don’t have a date, and it’s too late to buy a ticket, anyway.”

“Well shit, I wish I’d known.” It didn’t seem right, Brienne not going. It wouldn’t be the same without her there. “You should see if any of the guys from the team don’t have a date yet, I’m sure any one of them would be happy to take you. Hells, I’d take you, but my sister’s making me go with her since her useless boyfriend won’t be home from college in time.”

Brienne snorted, deeply skeptical.

“You can’t be serious—besides, can you picture me wearing a dress?”

He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back, taking her in. With her build he’d be surprised if she even owned a dress; she must have a hard time finding anything that fits her right off the rack. And though he’d only caught a brief glimpse at the swimming hole, he knew what was underneath the hoodie and track pants she wore. He’d managed to commit the shape of her body to memory from that glimpse, her athletic build, the distracting way all that pale, freckled skin stretched over her long limbs, the hard muscles of her arms and legs, the subtle definition of her abs…

He cleared his throat. “Well, let’s see. It would have to be on the short side—finding enough fabric to actually cover you head to toe would cost a small fortune. And of course it would have to be blue, to match your eyes.”

She threw a hand out to attempt to cover his eyes.

“Stop picturing me in a dress!” she squeaked.

“You literally just asked me to!”

He batted her hand aside, smirking.

“Seven hells, just—” exasperated, Brienne shot to her feet. “I don’t even want to go to prom, okay? And certainly not as someone’s last-ditch choice. You remember what happened the last time someone tried to ask me to a dance.”

Jaime quieted. The Bet. Shit.

She sighed and snatched the book back from him.

“Look, let’s just go to the cafeteria, since you’re so determined to distract me from getting any work done.”

Relieved she wasn’t going to hold his carelessness against him, he got up to follow her.

“Excellent idea. But first you should hide that thing in the farthest reaches of the library, where no innocent eyes can accidentally stumble upon it,” he joked, tapping the book in her hands.

Brienne worried at her lower lip.

“We shouldn’t make the librarian’s job harder.”

“But what if some naive little freshman were to stumble upon it? I believe it’s our civic duty to hide this book. Besides, the librarian looks like she could use the thrill.”

“I think you just want it in a safe place so you can be sure where to find it again.”

“You know, we have this amazing thing called the Internet—all the dirty pictures you could ask for, right at your fingertips. Though I will say, this book does hold certain, analog charms…”

“You’re unbelievable.”

She makes it so easy, Jaime thought, following her back into the stacks, shoulders shaking with silent laughter at her discomfort.

She led them to the very last row of bookshelves with intense determination, and he found himself having to jog a little to keep up. So when she rounded the final corner and came to an abrupt halt he was unprepared, momentum continuing to propel him forward into the solid wall of her back, his chest bumping uncomfortably against the bulky shape of her backpack, his hands coming up to brace himself against her shoulders.

“A little warning, Tarth…” Jaime grunted, but his annoyance trailed off after spotting what had caused her to stop her in her tracks.

Two students were entangled in a feverish embrace towards the end of the aisle, tongues down each other’s throats and hips moving in what passed for a fairly accurate live-action interpretation of what the cursed Dothraki book had only hoped to depict with paper and ink. Even attached as it was to Osmund Kettleblack’s own, there was no mistaking Cersei’s beautiful face—her shining blonde curls cascading over one of his hands, her red lipstick staining his thick neck. Neither of them had yet noticed the arrival of an audience.

Jaime felt Brienne’s eyes on his face, though he couldn’t tear his own off his twin’s. He fought to keep his expression neutral.

They had an agreement about Robert, he and Cersei, and he’d learned to deal with it. His twin was always so paranoid, always worried someone would suspect the true nature of their relationship, and she felt the safest option was to be seen dating someone publicly. So it was—fine. Jaime never liked it much, but at least he had her all to himself while Robert was away at college. Or so he thought.

Blood pounded in his ears at the sight of Osmond’s hairy knuckles reaching down to paw at Cersei’s hip, pulling her pelvis flush against his. Jaime was surprised by the sound of his own voice when he finally spoke, tight with barely-suppressed rage.

“Oh look, it’s my sister.”

Cersei startled, immediately wrenching her lips away from Osmund’s. There was a brief moment of wide-eyed, unguarded surprise in her expression when her eyes found Jaime’s, but it was quickly buried. Then, holding his gaze, she slowly, excruciatingly, removed her hand from where it had been shoved down the front of Osmund’s khakis.

He hated how much he wanted to forgive her, even now.

“Babe, what’re you—” Osmund was doing an excellent job of living up to his reputation as a meathead, somehow completely oblivious to Jaime’s presence and the tension now crackling between the bookshelves like an electric storm. Cersei smacked him in the chest and he rubbed the spot, brow furrowed, before finally spotting Jaime out of the corner of his eye.

“Shit,” Osmund laughed, not sensing the danger he’d found himself in. “My bad. No brother should have to see that, am I right?”

“Oh, you’d be surprised by the sort of things I’ve seen Cersei do.”

Osmund laughed again, clearly confused, and looked to Cersei for support. Her eyes were like wildfire, still locked with Jaime’s.

“I see you brought your new plaything along,” she sneered.

Jaime clenched his jaw, eyes flickering briefly to Brienne before dragging his gaze back to his sister.

“Don’t call her that.”

Cersei took a step towards him.

“Oh Jaime, relax. You know it doesn’t mean anything.” 

“Yeah, just like Robert doesn’t mean anything.”

A flash of panic shot across Osmund’s face. “Dude, you’re not gonna like—say anything to him, are you?”

Jaime’s eyes fell again to the lipstick on Osmond’s neck, the perfect outline of Cersei’s perfect lips. Those lips had caressed every inch of Jaime’s own body, had whispered promises against his skin in the dead of night, had made him believe they were the only two people in the world who mattered.

Was it all a fucking lie?

He closed his eyes, unable to look at the scene before him a moment longer. When he opened them again it was to the sound of Brienne shifting nervously at his side. He turned to look at her. She was still clutching the damn book.

Calmly, he reached over to tug it out of her grasp one last time and placed it on the nearest shelf.

“Come on, we’re going to miss lunch.”

A steady drizzle was falling when he burst into the courtyard outside the library, Brienne anxiously keeping pace beside him. He avoided her eyes, worried she might ask questions he wouldn’t be able to answer. His feet continued to carry him past the door that would take them to the cafeteria and he felt her hand close over his elbow, urging him to stop. He shook her off.

“Jaime, where are you going?”

“I’m not hungry.”

Much like the day at the swimming hole, he could feel the way her inexplicable sympathy was falling off of her in waves, breaking off to float around them like a physical presence and creep its way under his skin. He chanced a glance her way.

He looked everywhere but her face, staring at the dark spots of rain dotting her shirt, noting the way her hair had already sprung into a frizzy mess, a bird’s nest made of blonde candy floss.

He wouldn’t look at her eyes. He wouldn’t.

“I’ll see you Monday,” he said, fixing his gaze to a spot just over her shoulder.

She nodded, and it was all he could do to turn his back on her and walk away, wondering if maybe he was the liar after all.

Jaime knew his twin had been furious when he’d picked University of King’s Landing over attending Lannisport with her, but he hadn’t been worried—he trusted they would always find a way to make things work. Sure, it might take a little more effort than if they’d been in the same city, but Cersei was a part of him—they were two halves of the same soul. Distance was nothing compared to a love like theirs.

So why did she always find it so easy to hurt him? 

They’d had fights before—gods, had they fought—each and every one of them a battle that would only end with their fury turning into fucking. He knew if they fought now, it would be much the same. But maybe he didn’t want that anymore. Maybe he didn’t even know what he wanted.

He thought he’d be angrier, but more than anything, he felt—resigned. Tired. He couldn’t summon the energy to listen to her apologies, to make himself believe whatever new promises she’d make.

Jaime considered it a stroke of luck when he arrived home that afternoon to find his father’s suitcase sitting just inside the front door. Tywin Lannister was often gone for weeks on end, working some big, years-long case in the Riverlands, but it seemed he’d finally remembered he had children to care for. Jaime had never been more happy to endure his father’s disdain, safe in the knowledge that Cersei wouldn’t dare try to fuck him into forgetting as long as Tywin was home. It was an odd feeling—normally he would be counting down the minutes until he could have her again, each day spent without his twin some sweet torture that only ever served to heighten his desire. But for the first time in his life, he was grateful for the excuse to stay apart.

School had become a pleasant reprieve from the tense silence at home; the fact that Brienne was no longer sequestering herself in the library during lunch was simply an added bonus. Even if she’d developed a new habit of turning those soulful eyes of hers upon him whenever she thought he wouldn’t notice, watching him with all the earnest concern of a girl who knew what it was like to lose a sibling, probably thinking that whatever happened between Jaime and his twin couldn’t possibly be something worth staying mad over.

He almost wanted to tell her the truth—wanted to see the look on her face shift with every new sordid detail, wanted to watch the way her eyes would change when she went back to despising him as much as he deserved. Brienne might have accepted his confession about Aerys, but Jaime wasn’t delusional enough to think she’d still want to hang out with him if she found out he’d been fucking his own sister all through high school.

That wasn’t a conversation he was prepared to have.

When Tywin finally returned to the Riverlands a couple of weeks later it was the longest Jaime and his sister had ever gone without speaking to the other—he’d locked his bedroom door at night, and Cersei had offered up nothing more than quiet seething at mealtimes, interrupted only by Tyrion’s increasingly futile attempts to fill the awkward silence.

It was Cersei who finally broke, in the end, confronting him the morning after their father’s departure. Luminous with rage, she marched over to the kitchen island where her brothers sat eating breakfast, slapping a piece of paper to the granite beside Jaime’s cereal bowl with such force a bit of milk splashed out onto the counter.

She glared down at him, nostrils flaring.

“What the fuck is this?”

Jaime glanced at the piece of paper, the ink splotchy in places from where the milk had soaked in.

“Looks like a return receipt,” he said, shoveling another spoonful of cereal into his mouth. He felt Tyrion straighten on his other side, doing a poor job of pretending he wasn’t listening.

“You’ve made your point, Jaime,” Cersei hissed.

“Thanks, but I wasn’t actually trying to make one.”

“What am I supposed to do now? Prom’s in two days!”

“I don’t know, why don’t you ask Kettleblack, he seemed more than happy to take you.”

“You’re acting like a child.”

He ignored her, lifting the cereal bowl to his mouth to finish off the sugar-laden milk in the bottom. The bowl had barely touched his lips before Cersei’s hand closed around it, wrenching it out of his fingers to throw it against the cabinet behind his head. It shattered, spraying milk in every direction.

Calmly, he rose to his feet, walking out of the kitchen without another word.

Tyrion caught up to Jaime on the stairs, shaking milk out of his hair as he hurried along.

“Interesting choice, returning your tux before prom,” he ventured.

Jaime shrugged.

“A bold plan, really, introducing the practice of nudism so late in the school year, but I think it would’ve been better to ease everyone into the idea over a longer period of time.”

“Don’t need a tux because I’m not going to prom.”

“Trouble in paradise?” Tyrion asked, not even bothering to temper his glee.

“Don’t start,” Jaime muttered. He tried to swing his bedroom door closed, but Tyrion caught the handle and slipped inside behind him.

“That bad, eh?”

Ignoring his little brother, Jaime flung himself onto his bed.

Tyrion grimaced. “I take it you found out about Osney Kettleblack, then.”

Jaime sat up so quickly he saw spots. “She’s been fooling around with Osney, too? Both of them?”

“Guess she’s got a thing for brothers…”

“Oh fuck you.”

He collapsed back to the mattress and stared at the ceiling. A long moment of silence stretched out between them, until Jaime felt the mattress dip with Tyrion’s weight as his brother hoisted himself up beside him. He patted Jaime’s arm.

“Have you considered it might be for the best?”

Jaime grunted.

“You’re going off to King’s Landing, this is your chance for a fresh start! College girls are going to be throwing themselves at you left and right—and do you really think she’s going to stay faithful to you, all the way in Lannisport? She can’t even manage it when you’re living in the same house…”

“Not. Helping,” Jaime ground out.

“College girls, Jaime,” Tyrion repeated emphatically.

Is that what he should want? Meaningless, casual sex with a succession of faceless girls? It didn’t feel right. More to appease his brother than anything, Jaime closed his eyes and tried to picture someone who wasn’t Cersei. Bit by bit, an image started to come together in his mind; wisps of straw-colored hair, constellations of freckles spreading out over a blush-stained chest, little white crescent moons on the underwear he would slip over her strong, muscular thighs as they parted for him to sink between; clear, blue eyes that would lock with his as they both fell over the edge…

Jaime coughed, blinking rapidly as the ceiling came back into focus. 

“Yeah, maybe,” he agreed.

Tyrion patted his arm again. “That’s the spirit."

The sun sat high, white, and unrelenting in the sky above them as Jaime sprinted down the home straight, Brienne hot on his heels. The entire senior class had been granted a half day in preparation for the prom that night, but Jaime felt a better use of his time would be found in daring Brienne to join him out on the track for some conditioning work. Not that she ever needed much coaxing when it came to training, but ever since their season ended she’d seemed to prefer working out on her own. 

Spring had somehow passed them by in a blink, the heat of early summer already beginning to make its presence known with each passing day. He’d laughed at Brienne’s diligence when she’d pulled a bottle of sunscreen out of her bag before starting their warm up, but his laughter quickly died in his throat once she set about rubbing the cream over every last bit of her exposed skin. Given the heat, she’d even chosen to forgo her usual track pants in favor of soccer shorts, and watching her hands sweep over miles and miles of freckled leg was threatening to put him in a fairly inconvenient state. 

He knew he wasn’t being smart, knew it was dangerous the way he was finding it more and more difficult to stop himself from doing something stupid when it came to Brienne. Certain images had burned themselves into his skull, and even if he could distract himself from thinking about the shape of her shoulders or the toned lines of her thighs during his waking hours, all bets were off when his unconscious mind took over. Which was, again—confusing, because until recently he’d only ever woken up hard from dreams of Cersei. And it went without saying that it was definitely too soon, for him, and too selfish, and too impossible to think he could want something different than everything he’d ever known.

Anyway, they were just friends. He liked being her friend.

He could join her for normal, friendly activities, like meeting up for off-season training on a beautiful, sunny day. He could even take his shirt off if he got too hot after the first few sprints, just like he would with any of his other friends. And if Brienne’s cheeks seemed to get pinker when she caught sight of his bare chest, well, maybe she was just warm, too.

Sure, he could put it back on now that they were moving through their cool down, but maybe he liked how nervous the sight of his bare torso seemed to make her. He was getting her back for earlier, even if she didn’t know it. Which was the kind of thing a friend would do.

Brienne grabbed her water bottle and titled her head back to take several long sips. Her throat rippled with each swallow, pink between her freckles and glistening with sweat. Jaime held his own bottle aloft and let the cold water pour out over his head.

They were friends.

“Don’t you need to go get ready?” she asked distractedly, looking at her watch with two fingers resting against the side of her neck to check her pulse.

“Nah, I’ve got plenty of time.”

She didn’t know that he didn’t have anything to get ready for, anymore. Jaime’s only plans for the evening involved steering clear of his sister’s wrath as she and her friends took prom photos on the front lawn, after which he was planning to hole himself up in the basement to watch the new special Westeros Sports Network would be airing about his favorite soccer player. 

He fell in step alongside Brienne for the walk back to the parking lot.

“Hey,” he said, leaning over to knock a sweaty shoulder against hers, “that special about Arthur Dayne airs tonight. You gonna watch it?”

She returned his shoulder bump with one of her own.

“I mean—I want to, but we don’t get that channel at home.”

“So come over and watch it at my house.”

It took him a moment to realize she’d stopped walking. He turned around to face her, trying not to smile at the confusion on her face.

“Jaime…it’s prom night.”

“And? I thought you said you weren’t going.”

“Aren’t you?”

“It’s on at 8:00—I thought I’d watch it on the big screen downstairs. It’ll be great.”

“I know you’re upset with her, but Jaime—”

“Look, just—” he cut her off “—I don’t want to talk about it. Are you coming over, or not?”

She paused for a long moment, searching his face like she might be able to read his mind if she tried hard enough. He was a little worried she’d succeed.

He smiled when she finally nodded her agreement, enjoying the way the wariness in her eyes softened the longer she looked at him. Being her friend wasn’t going to be easy if she kept looking at him like that.

Chapter Text

The detritus of prom night littered every surface in the kitchen, another reminder of a world she would always find herself on the edges of. Brienne picked up one of the empty corsage boxes from where it had been sitting on the counter, a single red rose petal atop the little paper doily within. She hated roses.

Jaime was dumping what remained of a picked-over vegetable platter onto a plate, a bowl of chips in the crook of his other arm.

“Can you grab the dip?” he asked, looking up. A line appeared between his brows when he spotted the box in her hands. Embarrassed, she set it back down and grabbed the plastic tub of vegetable dip.

“When will they be back, do you think?” she asked. She didn’t want to be there when his sister and her friends returned, glittering and beautiful in their formalwear, yet another stark example of all the ways in which Brienne would never just be normal. Normal teenage girls didn’t spend their senior prom watching sports documentaries, chasing after crumbs from a boy who was desperately in love with someone else.   

“Definitely not tonight—they’re all going to some hotel after,” Jaime answered over his shoulder as he started down the basement stairs.

“What about Tryion, doesn’t he want to watch?”

“Doubtful. Besides, he’s out with his Debate Team friends.”

Right. That was fine. She would have preferred the buffer, but she was perfectly capable of handling being alone with Jaime for the next hour or so. She needed to get over this stupid, futile crush, and she was treating every interaction with him like a form of exposure therapy. The key was to build up her tolerance to him, that was all. Maybe with enough practice she’d even learn to control her blushes.

She’d known he needed a friend after the incident in the library, even if there was nothing she could really do, nothing she could say without admitting she knew yet another of his deepest secrets—the one she’d learned by accident. The one he hadn’t trusted her with.

He’d looked so shattered that day, and suddenly everything she hadn’t understood about his relationship with his sister shifted sharply into focus; however wrong it may be, however unnatural, Jaime loved Cersei as deeply as anyone could hope to be loved. A love like that wouldn’t extinguish with one argument—they would find their way back to one another once the initial hurt faded.

Which meant it was very unproductive for Brienne to spend any time thinking about how incredibly good Jaime smelled—warm and clean, with a hint of spice. Or how soft his hair looked where it brushed along the edge of his jaw in careless, sun-streaked curls. How he was nearly as tall as her, so she didn’t have to duck to look him the eye. How straight and white his teeth were when he laughed. How lovely her name sounded in his mouth.

Why did her heart always want impossible things?

It was Renly all over again—a misguided crush, feelings that could never be returned—only this thing with Jaime was somehow even worse. Renly had been a fantasy, a boy she barely knew, someone she could daydream about from a safe distance. Jaime, however…she knew far too much about Jaime. She knew things about him no sane person would be okay with. She knew things about him that should make her toes curl.

But she knew other things, too. Like the way he’d had to harden himself against everyone’s judgment, so only a select few ever saw the surprising softness he kept hidden below the surface. He pretended he didn’t care about anything, but he was fierce when it came to injustice. He had saved her from The Bet. He had treated her like an equal on the soccer team; he respected her as an athlete, and he’d believed in her. He’d trusted her enough to tell her about Aerys. He’d taken a risk and offered her friendship, and it wasn’t fair to him that her heart had taken his kindness and twisted it into something more. Because if nothing else, she wanted to be his friend.

Down in the basement rec room, Jaime spread out the snacks he’d liberated from the kitchen across the coffee table and tuned the giant flatscreen to WSN.

Brienne planted herself several cushions away from him on the enormous couch, and was only vaguely aware of Arthur Dayne’s face filling the screen in front of them. The program probably would’ve been very interesting had she actually been able to pay attention to any of it. Clips of Dayne’s most impressive goals, his medal ceremonies, interviews with his family, teammates and coaches all flashed by, but she could barely hear any of it over the sound of her own skittering heart, painfully aware of the boy at the other end of the couch.

Mercifully, the special was only an hour long. Brienne was ready to say good night, already silently congratulating herself for managing to act mostly normal through the whole evening, when Jaime yawned and picked up the remote.

“Let’s find a movie to watch next.”

Next? She nodded mutely as he began flicking through the guide.

He landed on a period drama that was just starting, the opening titles fading onto the screen to a soundtrack of soaring orchestral music.

“Is this that book we read in Tully’s class last year?”

It was, and while she’d had no intention of ever watching it because every review had said the film wasn’t a very faithful adaptation, she couldn’t seem to make herself get up to leave.

“You read it?” she heard herself asking.

“That’s a subjective term…read, skimmed—let’s just say I didn’t flunk the paper.” He tilted his head towards her with a smirk.

Jaime had been mostly silent earlier, eagerly absorbing every word of his idol’s life story, but it seemed he approached movies with a different attitude. Now he was providing running commentary throughout, occasionally peppering Brienne with questions about the parts of the story he didn’t remember.

His innocuous chatter relaxed her enough that she forgot to guard her own reactions to the film. Like the wistful little sigh that slipped out when the hero returned from war to the woman he loved but had never told, to learn that she loved him, too, their years of emotional build-up finally culminating in a kiss. Brienne began to redden with embarrassment as soon as the sound escaped her lips, remembering herself.

“Why Tarth,” Jaime said, and she could hear the grin his his voice without needing to look, “you’re blushing.”

“No I’m not.”

“So you’re just naturally that remarkable shade of pink, then?”

Trying to keep her face devoid of all expression, she forced herself to look at Jaime. Which was, of course, a very bad idea—when those teasing green eyes of his locked with hers she knew she was doomed.

The actors were still kissing, a close-up filling the screen so their faces loomed larger than life, violins swelling to a crescendo; Jaime glanced again at the TV then back to Brienne’s ruddy face, tilting his head a little as he regarded her.

“Have you ever been kissed before?”

She prayed to any god that would listen to stop her face from flushing further, even as she felt her cheeks growing hotter.

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”

“I could do it, if you wanted,” he offered, quietly. Then, grinning roguishly added, “I dare you.”

Her heart was hammering away in her chest now, a mixture of trepidation and desire beating a frenzied rhythm against her ribs.

“I know you think you’re funny, but you’re not.”

“I’m not joking.”

“I’m not some charity project, Jaime.”

“No, of course not. I just—I would. If you wanted to.”

She didn’t know what to make of that. Her mind felt like it was short circuiting, trying to understand what he was saying. Trying to find a reason.

“But aren’t you—I mean, I thought you were seeing someone?”

“What makes you say that?”

She was absolutely not going to mention his sister.

“I just…assumed.”

Jaime had been slowly moving closer to her the whole time; there wasn’t even a full couch cushion separating them anymore. She could make out the specks of gold in his eyes, the green depths they swam in somehow darker than usual. His knee bumped against her thigh.

“I’m not seeing someone.” His voice was low and inviting. Sparks shot down the base of her spine.

She knew this was probably a very bad idea—like giving an addict their first taste of the drug that would ruin their life.

It could never go anywhere. He was in love with someone else. He was only doing this because he thought he’d finally found a dare she’d back down from. But—

But maybe she didn’t care. Because the nearer he got, the harder it became to think about anything other than his face.

He did have a very nice face. And very nice lips—pink, and soft looking, upturned just a bit at the corners with the small smirk he was giving her.

“Do you dare me to kiss you, Brienne?”

He was so close now; she could feel his breath on her face.

“You dared me,” she countered, aiming to sound bored but managing nothing more than a breathless whisper.

Jaime swallowed. She watched his throat bob, followed the movement up to his mouth, saw the wet spot on his lower lip from where he’d drawn it in.

“I guess I did.” His hand curled around the back of her neck; she shivered under his touch. “Well?”

“I’m not a coward,” she breathed.

Time seemed to slow as he closed the distance, as the world shifted a little off its axis, and Brienne wondered how the evening had taken such a peculiar turn.

Her eyes fluttered closed at the first brush of his lips, warm and gentle. This is a kiss, I am being kissed, she thought. Jaime Lannister is kissing me.

He lingered there for a moment, one hand on her neck holding her steady, and then it was over. The tip of his nose was still pressed against her cheek, though he didn’t pull back further. He must be waiting for something. She glanced at him from under her lashes, thinking she ought to—what? Thank him? Apologize? Declare victory? But when she parted her lips to speak Jaime only captured them again.

He pressed into her a little more. She felt the blunt edge of his teeth bump along her lower lip, the gentle pressure of his fingers at the nape of her neck. Where the first touch of his lips had been tentative, the second was more confident. And the third, and fourth, and fifth, and, and—

Slowly, he coaxed her mouth open against his. The new sensation of his tongue sliding against hers drew a sound from the back of her throat echoed by an insistent noise of his own. A hand curled around her hip; a desperate spark of heat flared to life in her pelvis.

Brienne reached out to pull him closer. She wanted him, completely.

Jaime was half on top of her now, easing her further into the cushions, holding her between the yielding couch behind and his solid body in front. Would she melt away completely if he let go? She felt like she might dissolve in his arms, nothing left to remember her by save for a Brienne-shaped mark on the upholstery.

A voice floated into her consciousness from somewhere far above.

“Jaime, are you down there?”

Tyrion, calling down the basement stairs. They must not have heard him arrive home. They must have been too distracted. Because of all the kissing.

Jaime groaned in annoyance and broke away, dropping his head to her shoulder.

“Impeccable timing,” he muttered against her neck. Angling his head to avoid shouting in her ear, he called back up the stairs to his brother, “What’s up, Tyr?”

“I’m starving, and the kitchen is a picked-over wasteland,” Tyrion shouted back. “Will you give me a ride to the drive-thru?”

Jaime fixed her with a wry grin and rolled his eyes. “Fine, give me a minute.”

He placed one more quick kiss on the corner of her mouth before disentangling himself to stand.

The air in the basement felt colder from the loss of contact with Jaime’s warm body. He got up from the couch with his back to her, calmly straightening the disarray of his clothes and hair. Had she done that to him? She was staring at him like some moon-eyed fool, mouth slack and utterly speechless as he finished adjusting the front of his pants and turned around to offer her a hand.

Dazed, she let him help her stand.

“Can’t have you looking like you just got mauled by a bear down here.” He smiled at her softly, smoothing both hands over her unruly hair to tuck it behind her ears. “You hungry?”

She blinked, trying to form a thought around the feeling of Jaime’s hands on either side of her head. It was baffling how easily he touched her. He finished fixing her hair and rested his palms on her shoulders.

“Oh I—” she stammered “—I should, um—it’s getting late. I should probably head home.”

What are you doing, stupid?

He shrugged, still smiling. “Okay, I’ll walk you out.”

Tyrion was already waiting by the front door, and the whole scene felt like a bizarre echo of the last time she'd been there. Only this time she was reeling for a completely different reason.

“Brienne! I didn’t realize you were here.” Tyrion peered up at her, his surprise evident.

Did he know? Could he tell? No, it probably seemed a ludicrous enough possibility that he wouldn’t even put it together.

“Don’t tell me you ditched prom to keep my pathetic brother company.”

“She came over to watch that Arthur Dayne special,” Jaime explained.

“Riveting,” Tyrion grimaced, tossing Jaime the car keys. “And I’m sure you’ll tell me all about Dayne’s magic foot, but would you mind telling me with a cheeseburger and large fries? Arguing with the morons on my debate team really works up an appetite.”

“I’ve been working up one of those, myself,” Jaime quipped.

Brienne felt her eyes go wide as saucers and blushed anew, but Tyrion was oblivious, already out the door and halfway down the steps. Jaime held the door open for her, eyes sparkling with amusement as he caught sight of her expression.

He fell in beside her on the front path, leaning close to her ear and speaking in a breathy falsetto, “Dear Diary, you’ll never guess what happened tonight.”

“Oh gods, please shut up,” Brienne groaned.

She shoved his arm lightly, knocking him off balance. Chuckling, he took a few stumbling steps into the grass. She bit down on her swollen bottom lip to hold back the amusement threatening to spread across her face. 

“What?” He regained his footing along with his normal voice. “You’re telling me that wasn’t diary material?”

“You’re hilarious, Jaime, really,” she deadpanned.

He used the remote to unlock the car for Tyrion, still out of earshot.

“Surely your first kiss deserves an entry.”

She was blushing again, of course, just from hearing him speak of it so plainly. It was dark enough in the driveway that he might not have noticed, but even so she didn’t want to give him the satisfaction. After all, it had only been another dare. It didn’t mean anything to him.

“Well, I don’t have a diary so I guess you’re out of luck.”

Staring straight ahead, she marched over to her car and shoved the key in the lock.

“Night, Brienne!” Tyrion called out as he climbed into Jaime’s car.

She made the mistake of looking up to give Tyrion a small wave of acknowledgement, her eyes inevitably finding Jaime’s instead. He winked.

“Sweet dreams, Tarth.” 

A fresh shiver trembled down her spine.

It didn’t mean anything.

The bell marking the end of third period jerked Brienne out of a particularly vivid daydream. Jaime’s darkened eyes had been growing closer, her heart had been pounding away, her skin had been flooding with warmth—she quickly gathered her things and got up from her desk, hoping the bustle of the hallway would help clear her mind. She had to get her head on straight—she would see Jaime the period after next and still hadn’t figured out how to be near him without wanting to kiss him again.

The weekend had passed in a daze. Now that she knew what kissing Jaime was like, it had become impossible to focus on anything else. Every quiet moment found Brienne drifting back to that evening, reliving the press of his lips against hers, the heat of his body settling over her, the ghost of his fingers caressing the back of her neck, the side of her hip. She had to constantly remind herself not to overthink any of it—it was nothing more than an extension of the game they’d been playing all semester. Jaime just hadn’t expected her to call his bluff.

It was almost a comforting thought. It meant he hadn’t seen through her yet. Things wouldn’t be weird between them—he didn’t know.

Of course he might notice something was up if Brienne couldn’t find a way to get it together long enough to stop reliving the kiss during her every waking moment—Monday had barely begun and she’d already zoned out for most of Calculus, had barely managed to fill out the worksheet her teacher handed out during High Valyrian.

Her next class was Ceramics. She usually dreaded it—anything to do with art was always her worst subject, and she usually left class feeling dejected and moody—but maybe it would be exactly what she needed to distract her from thoughts of Jaime.

Brienne hurried through the halls as fast as the crush of other students would allow—the pottery studio was annoyingly far from all her other classes so she was always in a bit of panicked rush to make it before the bell. She was ready to breathe a sigh of relief, finally turning into the quieter art wing, when suddenly a hand closed around hers and tugged.

Startled, Brienne twisted to find Jaime behind her. He raised his eyebrows with a question and she instantly went hot all over, any thought of making it to Ceramics on time forgotten, wordlessly following as he led her into a deserted stairwell.

He was going to tell her it had been a mistake. He was going to be nice about it, make some charming joke, and tell her it was never going to happen again. And she would be fine. She’d spend the rest of her life thinking about it, but she would be fine. Eventually.

“Jaime—” she began, ready to beat him to the punch, but he began slowly backing her against the wall and anything she’d hoped to say quickly died in her throat.

He looked down at their still-joined hands, turning her palm over in his before glancing up to meet her eyes. The intensity of his gaze took her breath away.

“How’s your day going?” His question was innocent, but his voice was not.

“It’s, um—” she swallowed; it was impossible to think clearly when his face was this close to hers again, she would only need to slip forward an inch or two to feel his lips on hers “—it’s okay.”

He twined their fingers together as his other hand settled over her hip, tracing small circles into the fabric of her sweatpants. The skin underneath felt like it had caught fire.

“Hm, just okay? I wonder what could be done to improve upon that.” His mouth was nearly on hers now, lips ghosting over hers with each word, but he held still. He was going to make her ask.

It was her turn; it was only fair.

She grabbed a fistful of his shirt and felt him tense under her touch, muscles coiling in anticipation.

“I dare you to kiss me again.”

Jaime was on her almost before she’d finished getting the words out, mouth hot and wanting against hers, like he knew how badly she ached for him.

Back in the hallway, the bell rang. 

He took a breath, began trailing his lips along her jaw.

“Don’t you have a class to get to?”

Brienne shook her head, tilting her chin to give him better access.

“Ceramics—I’m useless at it.”

She could feel his answering smile against her skin. Her eyes darted to the door, to the staircase beside them.

“What if someone comes in?”

His breath tickled the side of her neck; her eyes fell closed.

“No one uses this stairwell.”

She briefly wondered how he knew that, wondered if he’d ever been brazen enough to come here with Cersei, but then his lips found their way back to hers and Brienne couldn’t find it in herself to think about anything else.

If someone had told Brienne how the final few weeks of her high school career would unfold, she would have suggested they seek medical attention for what would have clearly been a massive head injury.

Yet as the days ticked ever-closer to graduation she found herself living out a kind of fantasy life; a life that involved slipping away to unused stairwells, sneaking into the equipment room with Jaime’s key, steaming up the windows of his car in the far corner of some parking lot.

I dare you to kiss me.

The whispered challenges had taken on a completely new kind of thrill now, somewhere deep in her belly, hot between her legs—distractingly so—and it was taking increasingly more effort to stop herself from falling for him.

She really needed not to fall for him.

She had never felt less in control of her own impulses and it was—intoxicating. Heady. She simply couldn’t get enough of him.

Even if she’d lost all track of whose turn it was to set the dare, even if she couldn’t remember the last time either one of them had dared the other to do something that didn’t involve lips and wandering hands and the urgent press of their bodies together, she needed to remember none of it was real. 

She wasn’t an idiot. She knew what they had wasn’t a relationship. They weren’t boyfriend and girlfriend; Jaime wasn’t going to hold her hand in the hallway between classes, or take her out on dates, or whatever else high school couples did.

Because he still had his sister, and Brienne was only borrowing him.

He and Cersei would reconcile eventually. There was too much at stake for them not to. They belonged together, Jaime and his beautiful twin. Their lives had been intricately entangled since birth—surely nothing could ever truly sever that kind of love.   

Brienne knew she should do a better job of protecting herself in the meantime—to guard her heart and brace for when Jaime inevitably got tired of the game—but how could she, when she knew what it felt like to kiss him? How good it felt to lose herself in his arms? How easy it was to drown? It was already too late.

Maybe she could try to reframe their feverish moments together as educational. He was doing her a favor, even if he didn’t quite know it. She’d always had little hope of ever finding someone who could actually be attracted to her, who would want to do these things with her for real, so she might as well see it through as far as she could.

It did have its merits. Like when Jaime discovered she had the house to herself every night.

“Is your dad going to freak out if you miss curfew?”

They were in his car—significantly more cramped than hers, but his tinted windows offered more privacy—tangled up somewhat uncomfortably over the center console.

“I don’t have a curfew,” she answered, arching into his hand as he slipped it under the hem of her shirt. “My dad works nights.”

Jaime pulled back to blink at her.

“You’re telling me we’ve been pretzeling ourselves into this car when you’ve had the house to yourself this whole time?”

She bit her lip, a vision flashing across her mind of Jaime in her bedroom, Jaime urging her down atop the old floral duvet on her bed. It was persuasive.

“I dare you to come over tomorrow night, then,” she answered.

So, Brienne’s education continued.

And even if she’d never really let herself believe anything like this would happen for her, she did have some understanding of what to expect—in the absence of a consistent mother figure, Selwyn Tarth had done his best to prepare his daughter for adolescence. Meaning one day he had handed Brienne a shopping bag filled with several books with embarrassing titles, each one meant to teach her about her changing body, and he had steadfastly avoided ever broaching the subject again. She remembered feeling a mixture of curiosity and dread as she pulled each book out of the bag.

Girl Power! All about YOU.

When a Maid Becomes a Woman: Everything You Need to Know About Puberty

Roelle’s Guide for the Grown Up Girl

That last one may have left a lot to be desired, but all were filled to the brim with every dismaying detail of what young Brienne would soon be facing as she barreled headlong into puberty. There were also certain other details within that made her face flame and wonder if her father had actually bothered to read the books before foisting them upon her, because some of the chapters had proved…rather interesting. Shocking. Enlightening, even.   

Which was to say that by the age of eighteen, Brienne was no stranger to the concept of slipping a finger or two beneath the elastic of her pajama bottoms in the dead of night. Having Jaime Lannister’s fingers there, however, was a wholly new experience.

“Is this okay?” He murmured against her cheek, one hand skimming tentatively just under the waistband of her pants.

Jaime was stretched out over her in the dim light of her bedroom, the plastic glow in the dark stars on her ceiling faintly green where they seemed to float above his head.

She nodded, whispering, “Yes. I dare y—” trailing off into a gasp as his his fingers dripped lower to brush over the thin material of her underwear.

He took the opportunity to catch her open mouth with his own, grinning as he kissed her. She couldn’t help but rock her hips up against his hand and felt—wanton. It was a word she’d heard before, never really understanding its true meaning. Until Jaime.

“Good?” he asked, adding a little more pressure, rubbing in circles over the damp fabric.

Brienne could only nod again, and reached up to pull his lips back to hers. He returned her kiss deeply, the combined sensation of his tongue and fingers making it more and more difficult to hold onto the small noises wanting to escape her throat.

“Don’t hold back,” he whispered, resting his forehead against her cheek. “I dare you.”

His fingers found their way past the final barrier, her underwear straining against his knuckles as he finally slid his fingers into the pulsing heat at her center. She arched into him, mouth falling open, not even knowing what to call the sounds he was drawing out of her now. Jaime shifted a little to twine one of his legs with hers, pressing himself flush along her side. She could feel him, then, hard against her hip. Her hand gripped his shoulder, the other scraping through his hair; she wanted him closer, needed something to hold on to. His hips moved in time with his fingers.

Brienne came with an undignified groan. Jaime slowly worked her through the aftershocks as she shuddered beneath him, her heart fluttering in her chest, her legs pleasantly numb, until he suddenly tensed in her arms and let out a choked whimper of his own. Chuckling weakly, he rolled onto his back beside her. She looked down and noticed a small damp spot on her sweatpants.

“Fuck, I’m sorry.” He gestured to his own trousers, chagrined, drawing her attention to the significantly larger stain there. “I’m not usually—”

How he could still make her blush at this point was beyond her, but she felt a familiar heat spreading across her face as realization dawned.

“I can give you something to change into, if you want?” She knew anything she lent Jaime would probably be a little too big on him and the last thing she wanted to do was draw even more attention to her size, but she couldn’t let him go home looking like that.

“Yeah?” He looked entirely too pleased at the prospect. “Do you have a pair of sweats with ‘Tarth’ on the ass? I want to wear those.”

Brienne shot him a dark look. “Keep pushing it and all you’ll be getting are a pair of shorts I grew out of.” A relic from when she’d been on the girl’s soccer team and they did have her last name emblazoned across the back, not that she’d ever let him see them. She’d only ever worn them to sleep in, and even then they were far too short.

She rose on shaky legs, and rifled through her dresser to toss Jaime a pair of plain grey sweats. She grabbed some pajama pants for herself, motioning for him to turn around so she could change.

“You know I literally just had my hand down your pants, right?” he said, bringing her blush back. “Besides, it’s not like I haven’t seen you in your underwear before.”

“You weren’t supposed to be looking that time.”

“I know. It was very ungentlemanly of me.” He flashed her a suggestive grin, but did as she asked.

She changed hastily and stood there with her back to him, pretending to be very interested in the contents of her dresser until he let her know he was finished. He was smiling at her when she turned to face him again, and it was like an invisible force pulling her back to his side.

He caught the end of her pajama drawstrings between two fingers, tugging gently. Brienne’s eyes fell to his hand. The sight of Jaime in her clothes was almost too much. It felt familiar. Domestic. It felt like something she was trying very hard not to want.

“Going to bed?” he asked. 

“It’s almost two in the morning.” She never stayed up this late on school nights.

“Want me to stay?”

She was alarmed by how much she wanted to say yes. How much she wanted to be touched by him again, how much she wanted all of him. Jaime was standing in her bedroom, wearing her sweatpants, hair mussed, eyes still hazy from climax, and completely unaware of how badly she wanted it all to mean so much more than it did.

Stay forever, she wanted to say.

Instead, she bent to gather up his discarded clothes from the heap at his feet, ignoring the way her pulse quickened when she realized he’d had to remove his underwear as well.

“My dad will be home from his shift soon, and we have school tomorrow,” she said, quickly shoving his soiled clothing into his hands.

Jaime stuck his tongue out playfully as he took them from her. “Because we might miss something really important, like cleaning out our lockers or signing the yearbooks of people we never even spoke to.”

Brienne rolled her eyes, leading him back through the darkened house.

“You can do what you like, but I’m not going to oversleep on our last day of high school.”

“Yeah, yeah, me either, I guess.” He took her chin between his fingers and titled her towards him for one last kiss. “I’ll see you in a few hours.”

I love you, she wanted to say.

Instead she watched as he climbed into his car and drove away. 

Bitterbridge High’s graduation ceremony took place on the football field, the entire senior class lined up in neat rows of folding chairs fanned out before a temporary stage on the turf, their mortarboards flying into the air just as the late afternoon light turned golden.

It hadn’t been so long ago that Brienne had been looking forward to this day, when she’d finally be able to close the book on this unpleasant chapter of her life and start fresh. But she felt none of that eagerness now, only a bone-deep ache in her chest. She would leave for Winterfell in a week for summer training. There was so little time left.

Jaime chased her down in the crowd after, finding her where she stood chatting with her father and uncle. Jaime always seemed to know where she was, like he was drawn to her the same way she was drawn to him—but of course that was a silly notion; she wasn’t exactly hard to spot.

“Brienne!” he called, waving.

He somehow made even their synthetic graduation robes look good. He’d unzipped the front already, the white fabric billowing around him as he jogged over, his dress shirt and slacks peeking out underneath.

She resolutely ignored the way her uncle’s bushy eyebrows shot up in surprise as Jaime reached her side.

“Do you mind if I borrow Brienne for a minute? We’re getting everyone from the soccer team together for a photo.”

“Not at all!” Her father smiled widely, sounding delighted. “Go take pictures with your friends, sweetheart, we’ll be right here when you’re finished.”

She found herself cataloging the moment in her mind as Jaime led her away by the hand, as she’d done with all their moments recently, wanting to remember the way his fingers felt when twined with hers, how well they fit together.

“Your dad seems nice. And was that your…uncle?” Jaime guessed.

“My Uncle Emmett, he flew in for the weekend. Dad took off work so we could all celebrate together.”   

Jaime nodded. “Between me, Cersei and Daven, it feels like we’ve got half the Lannister bloodline in town for the occasion. Not sure why they bothered coming, they all seem miserable.” He pointed out a large group of people milling near one end of the bleachers, their golden tresses and matching dour expressions clearly marking them for Jaime’s relatives. He laughed as a heavyset woman pinched Cersei’s cheek, his sister wrinkling her nose in distaste in response. “Aunt Genna’s not too bad, though.”

Their teammates were gathering near one of the goalposts, smiling and throwing arms around one another as they followed someone’s instructions to bunch up into two rows for the photo.

“Found her!” Jaime called.

The boys welcomed the two of them in with claps on the back and smiles, making room in the back row. Once, she would have been happy to hide back there—to hunch down and will herself to become invisible. But now—now she finally felt part of something. She felt cared for. If only she’d have let herself feel it sooner.

Jaime slid in beside her, draping an arm across her shoulders. Addam’s mother was already snapping away with a camera, futilely trying to get everyone to stop chatting and say cheese.

Brienne felt Jaime’s eyes on her. She turned her head to offer him a smile, only to be struck with such a heavy pang of longing she could barely speak.

“What is it?” she managed to ask.

His expression was heavy as he held onto her gaze, something unreadable swirling in the green depths of his eyes. “Are you sad it’s over?”

She swallowed, fighting against the sudden prickle of tears threatening to fall. Yes, she was sad. She could hardly breathe for the grief-stricken vice closing ever-tighter around her heart. This time with him was, she knew, the best she could ever hope for, and it was rapidly coming to an end.

She wasn’t ready to let him go.

She’d tried so hard to keep her heart safe, but there was no use. She wanted everything.

“You two, in the back! Eyes front!” Addam’s mother called out, pointing at the camera.

The shutter clicked, and Brienne forced herself to smile. 

Chapter Text

Jaime was trying very hard not to think about the suitcases he’d stumbled past on the way into Brienne’s bedroom earlier, sitting open and half-packed at the foot of her bed. Better to focus instead on what her roving hands were doing, warm and needy as she traced slow circuits over his chest, up across his shoulder blades, down to the small of his back. He trailed his lips to the spot she liked below her ear, smiling when she sighed the way he knew she would. Yes, this was much better.

“Jaime,” Brienne breathed out his name, a hot burst of air ruffling his hair. “I need—”

The pads of her fingers pressed down against his spine; Jaime swiped his tongue over the hollow of her throat.

“Hmm?” he hummed against her.

“I need—” she rasped, her hands suddenly gone from his skin as she wriggled out from under him “—a minute.”

Jaime slumped down to the mattress with a heavy sigh, head buzzing. She looked very pink indeed as she slipped out of the room. After a moment he heard her moving around in the kitchen—the sound of a cupboard opening, the tap running.

He always felt a little drunk when they were together like this. A little desperate for her. It had been like this with Cersei, too, he thought, but also—not quite. Not quite the same. There was something new going on here he didn’t fully understand.

He and Brienne seemed to have a silent agreement not to talk about any of it. Talking took time, and they had precious little remaining. And the longer they put off talking about it, the longer he could try to stave off reality.

Jaime scrubbed both hands over his face. He didn’t like being left alone with his thoughts for too long, knew the path they would take him down. That route only led to bigger, more confusing thoughts, none of which he was prepared to face yet.

Swinging both legs over the side of the bed, he glanced to the nightstand. Her little brick-shaped cell phone sat atop it—a graduation gift from her uncle, she’d explained; she’d never had one before and was still getting used to it. Jaime fished the charging cord off the floor and plugged it in for her.

Maybe they could exchange numbers, now. Still keep in touch. Hope sparked in his chest as he thought about being able to call her up whenever he missed the sound of her voice. It would be...something. He could already picture her up in Winterfell, a gentle snow falling outside her dorm room window as she held the phone to her ear; he’d be smiling to himself on the other end of the line and they could—

Brienne reappeared in the doorway, glass of water in hand. Her cheeks were still a little pink and her hair was a mess, half out of her ponytail, pale blonde wisps shoved inelegantly behind her ears. She was dressed the same as always—a shapeless tee and sweatpants that belied the miles of hard-earned muscle he knew was hidden away underneath. It was crazy how much he wanted her. 

And in a little over twenty-four hours, she’d be gone.

Jaime had been trying not to let himself get that far. This thing with Brienne was good—better than he could have ever imagined, really—but it felt tenuous, too, like one wrong breath could shatter whatever was happening between them. So he wouldn’t think about it.

Brienne held the glass out to him and he rose to join her. Condensation was already beading down the outside, cold and damp against his palm as he took a sip. It did little to cool his head, or the blood still pounding low and hot in his belly where he was still half-hard for her. His eyes crept to the doorframe, wondering if she’d let him pin her against it, see if they could find out how long it would take before she was gasping his name again.

His hand was already halfway to her waist when she murmured, “Let’s get some air.”

Jaime’s eyes drifted back to the damned suitcases. He followed.

The summer air had barely cooled, still hot and sticky despite the late hour. Jaime placed the glass of water down on the front walk, listening to the chorus of katydids and cicadas humming in the trees as Brienne rummaged around in her garage. She remerged after a few minutes and tossed him an old basketball. Grinning, he caught it, squeezed it between his fingers a little to test the shape, dribbled for a few paces to line up for a shot.

There was more of a clang than a whoosh when the ball sailed through the old net nailed above the garage door, the basket little more than a rusty metal hoop and a few frayed scraps of rope hanging down, the painted wooden backboard split and peeling with age. 

“This has seen better days,” Jaime observed.

Brienne shrugged, jogging after the ball as it bounced away. “Basketball was always more Gal’s thing.”

“I’m surprised the team didn’t try to recruit you, with your height.”

She threw the ball back to him and he repositioned himself for a more difficult shot.

“Oh, they did,” she admitted. “But I thought it would’ve distracted me too much from soccer.”

Jaime sent the ball back into the air, another clang resounding through the night when it found the net. “Were you any good?”

She shrugged again.

“Show me. I dare you to make the same shot.”

“What, like a game of HORSE?”

“No, I’m just daring you to show me your hidden basketball prowess.” He grabbed the ball as it rolled by and held it out to her. “Don’t spoil the fun, Brienne.”

She rolled her eyes, skeptical, but took the ball from his outstretched hand anyway and stepped into place.

Clang—she nailed it effortlessly, of course.

He chased after the ball, readied himself for a lay up.

“No dunking,” she warned. “I don’t think the net could take it.”

He laughed, sending the ball back to her instead. They continued on like that for some time, daring each other with more and more difficult shots. Jaime liked watching her like this, the concentration in her face as she readied her aim, the movement of her muscles as she bent her arms, the way they stretched almost gracefully through the air as the ball left her fingers.

He wanted to believe this didn’t have to be the end. College would keep them busy but there would always be school holidays, and away games that might bring them near each other, and—and he was getting ahead of himself. Again.

If he could stop wanting her long enough to think clearly around her, he might realize there was no possible way they could have a future together. To have a future, he would have to be honest. Which meant he'd need to find a way to explain his history with Cersei, because anything else would be lying. That was something he never thought he’d have to worry about, having never imagined a life where he and his twin weren’t together. It had all fallen apart so quickly, and yet if he really thought about it, maybe it had been falling apart since the beginning. Maybe it had never really been what he wanted it to be. Even now, parts of him were still inexorably drawn to his twin—would quite possibly always be drawn to her—and how could he go about explaining that to Brienne? Or anyone?

Besides, he’d never been very good with words. Sarcasm, sure. Cutting remarks and defensiveness, absolutely. But sincerity? He was more likely to fuck it up than actually manage to say what he wanted.

What could he even say, anyway? They were eighteen, they were headed off to college at different ends of the country, she had what was certain to be an incredible athletic career ahead of her, and he didn’t want to say anything that might hold her back from that.

And Brienne was...different, in ways that fascinated him long before he’d even realized he wanted to kiss her. He’d never known anyone like her. He wanted to know everything about her. He wanted—he wanted things he had no right to ask for.

He never should have kissed her. He’d been too selfish. She’d just looked so…sweet, sitting on that couch, her beautiful eyes all big and round and wistful as she watched the movie that the dare had fallen from his lips before he’d even really considered everything he was asking of her, and then he couldn’t have taken it back even if he’d had the wherewithal to try. Not when he could see the blush spreading down her neck, the way her eyes involuntarily flicked to his lips, the way her body drew ever-so-slightly towards his.

He’d always been stupid when it came to stuff like that—self-control was rarely at the forefront of his mind and he knew he frequently struggled to think with his brain instead of other, more southern organs. Cersei had certainly told him often enough. Always reminding him to control himself, only coming to him on her terms, always claiming to be afraid they’d get caught otherwise. Not here, Jaime, not now. He could hear his sister’s voice creeping into his thoughts, infecting his mind with doubt. Don’t be an idiot, Jaime.

But Cersei wasn’t here. She was off traipsing around the Free Cities with Robert Baratheon and Jaime was surprised by how little he missed her. It had actually been something of a relief to have a break from all the glaring silent treatment she’d taken to hurling his way. As if he deserved all the blame.

Anyway, he didn’t want to think about Cersei—all he wanted to think about was the next time he’d be kissing Brienne, the next time they’d be touching—

Distracted, he finally missed a shot. The ball ricocheted off the backboard and bounced to a stop at his feet. “Your turn, then,” he said, handing it off to Brienne.

She stared down at the ball for a long moment, her large hands flexing over the dimpled orange rubber. He took the opportunity to drink again from their shared glass of water, watching her over the rim as he took a few cooling sips. There was an oddly determined look on her face when she finally lifted her eyes to his.

“I dare you to sleep with me.”

Jaime choked a little, coughing as water went down the wrong pipe, trying to understand if he’d heard her correctly. “Do you mean—” he coughed again, putting the glass down and clapping a hand against his chest to clear his lungs “—sex?”

Brienne’s customary blush swiftly reappeared, flooding the high points of her cheeks and filling the space between her freckles. She looked like she wanted to flee.

“That was too far, I’m sorry. I take it back,” she said quickly. 

He found his breath again and tilted his head, thoughtful. “Well now, hang on a minute…”

“No, really, forget it.”

“By the rules set forth in the ancient Law of Dares—”

“There is no law of—”

“—by the very real and binding Law of Dares—”

“Oh my gods, you’re so—”

“—there are no takebacks permitted—”

“—ridiculous. Do you have to work at it, or does being this ridiculous just come naturally to you?”

“—heretofore—”

“That’s not even how you use that word!” Brienne dropped the basketball and lunged towards him, attempting to cover his mouth with her hand, but he casually caught her arm and held it away from his face.

“—heretofore, and as such: yes. I will.”

“You—”

“I’ll sleep with you.”

She stilled, her arm going limp in his grip.

“You don’t have to.”

Of course he didn’t have to—he wanted to. Very much.

Jaime narrowed his eyes, returning her challenge. “Backing down, Tarth?”

His heart was beating in double time, waiting for her answer, hoping she’d meant it. He slid his hand down her forearm, caressing the soft skin inside her wrist, intertwining their fingers, tugging her a half step closer.

She shook her head. Her eyes were impossibly soft, blue enough to drown in. “I’m not.”

He smiled, wrapping his other arm around her waist, pulling her into a hungry kiss. She dropped their joined hands and he was momentarily sad for the loss, but then blunt fingernails were scraping across his scalp, her fingers spearing through his hair to drag him even closer. He slid his own hands under her shirt to feel her warm skin, delighting in the way the firm muscles of her stomach contracted under his touch. He slipped a knee between her legs. 

“Wait, just—” she suddenly dropped her hands to his shoulders, looking around wildly; Jaime paused, panting against her cheek “—not tonight. Not here.”

“Wh-whatever you want,” Jaime said, forcing himself to pull back and look at her, not proud of how strangled his voice sounded.

“Tomorrow night.”

“Okay.”

“Is your father still out of town?”

He nodded. She bit her lip.

“What about your siblings?”

“Uh—” he blinked, trying to remember “—my sister’s on some graduation trip with her boyfriend, and Tyrion’s been spending every waking moment since school let out down in the basement playing video games. He barely even comes upstairs to eat.” He looked at her quizzically. “What’s wrong with your house?”

“Too many memories already.”

He wasn’t sure what she meant by that, but he wasn’t about to argue.

“So my place, then. Tomorrow night,” he said. “Are you sure that’s how you want to spend your last night here?”

Brienne swallowed, nodded. “You’re the only one I want to spend it with.”

Her eyes shone a little more than usual, and he wasn’t sure if it was just a reflection from the moonlight or something more. When he blinked, it was gone.

Jaime glanced around his bedroom, wondering how it would look through Brienne’s eyes. For all their fevered moments together, she’d never actually been in his room before. It wasn’t as cozy as hers, what with her mismatched furniture and the framed family photos atop her dresser; his bedroom was the result of Tywin Lannister’s interior decorator’s well-funded, impersonal expertise. Of course Jaime had managed to add a few touches to make it more his own over the years—though if tonight went as he hoped, Brienne would be too distracted to even notice the Arthur Dayne posters on the walls, the shelf of soccer trophies and medals above his desk, the pile of laundry he’d hastily shoved under the bed.

Headlights bounced off his window as Brienne finally pulled into the driveway. Jaime flicked the overhead light off, leaving only his small desk lamp on to light the room, and took off down the stairs two at a time to head her off before she could ring the doorbell. Tyrion probably wouldn’t hear it over his video game anyway, but he’d rather not risk the possibility of his brother intruding on any part of this evening.

Brienne seemed startled when he pulled the door open, like she hadn’t expected him to actually be there, waiting for her. When he stepped aside to let her in she brushed past him without a word.

He searched for something to say to put her at ease, but nothing sounded right. He may have done this plenty of times before but this felt...he still wanted it to mean something, with Brienne. She was important to him. 

If he were a better person he would tell her to leave, to wait until she found someone she was in love with—or at least until she found somebody less fucked up than him. But it was like he couldn’t help himself when it came to her; she was entirely unexpected and completely wonderful and he was going to find a way to tell her so.

Jaime shut the door and turned to Brienne, something like a confession forming on his lips, and found her staring distractedly at the Lannister family portrait hanging on the wall.

“If you’ve changed your mind—” he started.

She cut him off with a look, reached into her pocket and wordlessly handed him a strip of condoms.

The distant, muffled sounds of carnage from Tyrion’s video game were drowned out by the sudden rush of blood in his ears.

“Fuck, Brienne,” he breathed.

“That was kind of the idea, yes.”

Jaime swallowed heavily and grabbed her by the hand. Holding it tight against his chest he led her up the stairs, wondering if she could feel his heart pounding against their clasped palms, if hers was beating just as fast. He didn’t let go until they were inside his room and only so he could turn to kiss her, the door snapping shut as he dragged her face to his.

“You gonna tell me where you got those?”

“Health clinic—” she answered between breathless kisses “—downtown.”

He grinned against her lips. “Diligent as ever.”

Brienne laughed a little and he liked the sound, thought about ways he could draw another out of her, but her hands were already drawing his attention elsewhere, plucking at his t-shirt, urging it up over his ribs. Jaime raised his arms to assist and the shirt fell somewhere near their feet; he stepped over it as they danced a few steps further into the room.

She kicked off her flip flops, he ripped off his socks; the back of his knees hit the bed and he let himself fall, drawing her down with him. 

He liked feeling Brienne’s weight bearing down on him, the press of her knees against the outside of his thighs as she straddled him, relishing the way she was strong enough to hold him in place. Did she even know the effect she had on him?

“We could do it like this,” he groaned into their kiss, one hand curved around the back of her head, blindly working to free her hair from its ponytail. She pulled back to look at him as the elastic came loose, a little furrow appearing between her brows. “It might be more comfortable for you,” he explained.

“No just—” Brienne shook her head, blonde strands falling about her shoulders “—do it the normal way. I want to feel normal.”

Something clenched deep in his chest at that, a thousand things he wanted to say to her and none of the words to say them with. He kissed her again instead.

“Okay,” he agreed. “Whatever you want.”

When her shirt came off he was surprised to find she wasn’t wearing one of her usual sports bras underneath, but rather some dark blue, lacy thing. He could just make out her nipples through the material, round and pink beneath the delicate lace. Already impossibly hard, he felt his cock jump.

“Is that—did you get all fancy for me, Tarth?”

“Shut up.”

She moved to cross her arms over her chest, but he eased them apart, smoothing his palms up and down her arms until she relaxed again.

“Now this is very interesting.” He ran a curious finger over one of the frilly cups. “Did you already have this, or did you buy it special, for me?”

She tried to scowl at him, but the effect was ruined by the whimper she let out when he surged up to close his mouth over one of her small breasts, teasing her nipple to a stiff peak through the fabric.

“For—for you,” she confessed.

Jaime leaned back on his elbows, feeling a little smug. Brienne was breathing heavily above him, her chest splotchy and pink, her eyes hooded with desire and pupils so blown they nearly matched the midnight shade of her bra. 

He skimmed a hand up her waist, kneaded it over the now-damp material covering her breast. “And if I asked you take it off, for me?”

For a heartbeat she grew still, then quickly dropped her gaze as she reached around to unhook the clasp. Sensing her hesitation, Jaime caught her chin between his fingers, ducking his head to find her eyes with his own.

“Brienne,” he murmured, serious. “You know we don’t have to do anything, if you don’t want to.”

Her face softened again and whatever trepidation he thought he’d seen vanished. She brought a hand to his face and kissed him so sweetly, so tenderly, he felt tears spring to his eyes.

“I want to, Jaime. Please,” she whispered against his lips. “I trust you.”

It almost felt like she was telling him more. He thought he could hear the unspoken part underneath, the words he was dangerously close to saying himself.

I want to. I trust you.

It sounded very close to I love you.

Maybe he just wanted to hear it that desperately. This was almost as good.

Brienne finished slipping off her bra and tossed it aside, hands reaching to pull him up by the shoulders, her arms wrapping around him so their chests were pressed flush together and not breaking their kiss even as he flipped them, only holding him tighter as he bore her down to the mattress. Her skin was so warm against his—he could feel the life thrumming through her, thought he could feel her heart beating the same rhythm as his.

Their pants were discarded in a hurry, using feet and hands to help each other kick free. When she slipped a hand inside his boxers it took every ounce of his willpower not to fall apart right then and there, closing his eyes with a shaky breath, barely biting back a moan as he throbbed inside her surprisingly gentle grip.

He didn’t want to rush this.

Jaime brought her off with his fingers first, slowly coaxing her open until she was slick and clenching around him, her breath hot against his neck as she tried to muffle her cries against his skin. Hating to break contact with her but having no choice, he reluctantly peeled himself away after to retrieve one of the condoms from their heap of clothes on the floor. He stepped out of his underwear before climbing back onto the bed, kneeling between her legs, intensely aware of Brienne’s eyes on him the whole time. She rested a hand on one of his thighs and watched as he rolled the condom on, reaching to pull his face back to hers when he was done.

Trembling a little, Brienne shifted to give him more space as he positioned himself. When he pulled back to look in her eyes again he found she’d closed them, waiting. Jaime smoothed a thumb over her brow, nudged his nose against hers.

“Open your eyes,” he said, nearly begging. “I need to see you.”

Her lashes fluttered open, and he eased himself inside.

He awoke to freckles. Forehead pressed to her shoulder, the broad, speckled expanse of her back filled Jaime’s vision as he blinked awake. He’d struggled to make them out last night, in the dark, but as the pink light of dawn slowly filled his room her pale skin seemed to glow now, her countless freckles standing out like so many points on a map.

Jaime smiled to himself, rising to one elbow beside Brienne as he took in the sight of her, wondering how long it would take if he actually tried to count each one. She was asleep on her stomach, steady breaths escaping her parted lips, the white edge of her large teeth poking out a little. Even more freckles spilled over her cheeks, her eyelids, the uneven bridge of her nose, and her hair was a flaxen mess framing it all. She wasn’t beautiful, but he didn’t care.

We’re going to see each other again, he decided. This wasn’t goodbye.

He wanted more nights with her, more mornings waking up like this with her. He wanted everything.

His hand itched with the need to touch her so he did, gently smoothing it over the muscular planes of her back, sweeping his fingers up and down the ridges of her spine. She stirred as he shifted to drop a kiss to the back of her shoulder.

A small smile crept over Brienne’s face as she woke. He took a certain amount of pride in it—her smiles were always so rare, but this one was for him. It was his.   

Jaime dipped his head to press his lips to hers. She wrinkled her nose at his morning breath but returned the kiss eagerly, rolling to her side to free her hands and bring them to either side of his face.

“Good morning,” he said, sighing contentedly as he placed another kiss to the tip of her nose, pulling back so he could look at her some more.

The smile he’d hoped to see again suddenly slipped. Brienne sat up with a start, blinking against the daylight beginning to spill through his window.

“Oh gods, we fell asleep!” she said, horrified. “My dad will be home already, he must be wondering where I am—”

Jaime sat up, reaching for her. “Hey, it’s okay. Tell him—tell him you couldn’t sleep, you went for a run—”

“He’ll be worried sick.” She was leaning over the side of the bed, fishing their clothes on the floor, pulling her cell phone out of the pocket of her pants. “Shit—it’s dead, I keep forgetting to charge it—”

“Here, you can call him from mine—” Jaime reached blindly for the nightstand behind him, afraid to take his eyes off her lest she disappear. His hand closed over the little metal rectangle, but when he flipped it open the screen was blank. He never plugged it in to charge last night, either. Fuck. “There’s a landline in the kitchen—”

She was up and pulling on her clothes already. He wanted to reach out and run his hand over the soft skin of her back once more, but she’d already clasped her bra back on, was bent over searching for her shirt.

“No, no, I—I don’t even know what to tell him. I’ll think of it on the drive home.”

“Just—Brienne, slow down for a second,” he said, reluctantly climbing out of bed to pull on his own clothes. “Let me walk you out to your car, at least?”

He’d barely managed to locate his pants before she was taking off down the hallway. He hurried after her, hopping on one leg then the other while hastily tugging them up. The panicked look in her eye worried him. There were still things he wanted to say to her.

Jaime caught up to her at the bottom of the stairs and reached out for her hand, her arm, anything to get her to stop.

“Brienne, just—wait a minute, please.”

She slowed at the door, turned to face him. He stepped closer, searching her face—

A cough from the other end of the foyer echoed across the marble floor and they both jumped, turning in unison towards the sound. Tyrion stood near the basement door, a bowl of cereal in one hand and an energy drink in the other, bleary-eyed and openly bemused as he stared at them.

“Well, hello,” he said.

“What are you doing up this early?” Jaime asked, unable to keep the accusatory tone out of his voice.

“Never went to sleep, been trying to beat the final level of Night’s Watch.” Tyrion squinted, looking between the two of them in puzzlement, taking in Brienne’s messy hair, Jaime’s bare chest. “What are you doing up this early? Together?”

“None of your business—” Jaime snapped at the same time Brienne said, “Nothing—”

Tyrion’s brows shot up, unconvinced. “Well, it’s always nice to see you, Brienne, though we’ve really got to stop running into each other like this.”

“Yes, you’re right. And I’ve actually really got to go now, so…” Brienne fumbled for the doorknob.

Jaime glared at his brother, unsure of what just happened but annoyed that it had only seemed to fluster Brienne further.

“By the way, your shirt’s on inside out!” Tyrion called after her as she stepped outside.

Jaime followed her to the driveway, could tell she was blushing from the way the back of her neck had gone pink. Tyrion hadn’t been wrong—her shirt was indeed inside out. The care label was very obviously sticking out from the side seam, flapping against her hip with every step.

Brienne clambered into her car without a word to him and jammed her key into the ignition. Jaime rapped lightly on her window, motioning for her to roll it down.

She took a shaky breath as the glass came down between them and he ducked, resting his elbows on her open window.

“Jaime—”

“You can’t leave like this.”

“You knew I was leaving for Winterfell today.”

“Yes, but not like this.”

He wanted to make love to her again in the daylight. He wanted to share smiles with her over breakfast. He wanted to hear her laugh again. He wanted to make a promise to her, but he still didn’t have the right words. He’d left it too late.

“Will you come see me if you ever have a match in King’s Landing? Or what about over the holidays—you’ll come home, right? Let’s exchange cell numbers, I’ll call you—I just—” Jaime didn’t know what to say, tried to show her instead. He reached into the car, grabbed her face between his hands and kissed her hard.

“I don’t want this to be the last time we see each other, okay?” he murmured after, resting his forehead against hers. “I dare you, or whatever.”

Brienne’s hands were gentle on his wrists as she urged him away. She looked indescribably sad. He didn’t like it.

“Don’t—don’t look at me like that,” he pleaded. “It’s a triple dog dare, okay? So don’t even think about backing out.”

“Jaime, the game was always going to end eventually.” Her eyes were wet.

“Why are you crying?”

“Good luck in King’s Landing. You’re going to be amazing, Jaime. I know it.”

“No, wait. Brienne—”

Her car was beginning to move beneath his hands, slowly backing out of the driveway. For a wild moment he tightened his grip on her open window, jogging a little with the moving vehicle, only letting go when he realized there was nothing he could say to stop it from happening. She was really leaving. He was leaving too. It was always coming, and now the clock had finally run out.

There was nothing left for Jaime to do but stand under the brightening sky, chest aching with the weight of everything they’d never said, and watch her drive away. 

Chapter Text

10 YEARS LATER

The final whistle sounded, three shrill notes, and pandemonium erupted inside the packed stadium. The already deafening cheers of the crowd swelled to an immense roar, so loud it felt to Brienne like she could feel it vibrating within her very bones, hitting her like a solid wall of sound. And then something else was actually hitting her—the slim frame of center midfielder Sansa Stark as she launched herself into Brienne’s arms for a jubilant hug.

It was Brienne’s third World Cup and the team’s second win running, but it felt no less special than the first. Better, somehow, because Brienne had still felt like somewhat of an imposter after their win four years ago. This time, she knew she deserved it.

In the years since she had first been called up to play for the Westeros Women’s National Team, their popularity and notoriety had steadily grown, and they’d seen a groundswell of support over the course of this World Cup tournament. They’d all felt it—the screams of their fans at each match, the stadiums pulsating with energy and excitement. The hope of a nation riding on their shoulders.

Beaming, Sansa pulled back a bit, shouting something inaudible as tears streamed down her cheeks. Two of their defenders rushed to join them as well, Asha Greyjoy leaping into the air to attach herself to Brienne’s side, wrapping her legs around her waist and smacking a hard kiss to her temple; Ygritte Snow screaming “fucking champions!” over and over as she jumped up and down before them, her fiery ponytail bouncing about her head as she pumped her fists in the air.

Later, her face would be sore from smiling so much, but for now Brienne couldn’t feel any pain as her eyes sought out the other women on the field, letting it all sink in. Though her teammates were exhausted, sweat-soaked, and smelling like shit, all of that was instantly forgotten as they streamed across the field in celebration. They all knew their work was just beginning, but they would still enjoy this moment to its fullest.

She spotted tiny Arya Stark engulfed by Mya Stone and Alys Karstark near the sidelines. Someone had produced a couple of Westerosi flags and Shireen Baratheon and Meera Reed were wrapping them around their shoulders like capes, laughing as Wylla Manderly pretended to snap pictures of them with an invisible camera, her bright green braid a beacon on the field. Nearby, Osha Spearwife was blowing kisses to her wife and two small children in the stands. Team captain Dacey Mormont was standing center field, wiping tears from her eyes.   

“I’ve got to find mom!” Sansa yelled over the din.

Brienne watched as she ran off, motioning for her sister, Arya, to join her. Catelyn Stark was still there, hugging and shaking hands with the other members of the coaching staff when her daughters found her. The look of pride on Coach Stark’s face shone bright as the sun, and Brienne found herself moving towards the sidelines as well, scanning the stands behind them for where she knew her father would be sitting with the other families.

She always avoided looking at him during games—too much of an emotional distraction when all of her focus needed to be on the ball—but she found him now, his cheering voice somehow recognizable out of thousands, an enormous smile parting his bushy white beard. He’d sacrificed so much so that she could pursue this dream. This win belonged as much to him as it did to her—she couldn’t have done it without his support. Brienne let her feet carry her over and he reached down as far as he could over the barrier, catching her around the shoulders where she stood on her toes to meet his embrace.

“I’m so proud of you, Starlight,” he rumbled into her hair. His beard was damp with tears.

Crying herself, she wasn’t sure what words of thanks she managed to blurt out to him, but she tried to impart all the gratitude she was feeling into their hug.

“Now go celebrate with your team, I’ll see you after.” Her father kissed her on the top of the head, sending her back to the field.

There was still the trophy ceremony to stand for, the post-game interviews she’d be expected to give, the impromptu party they’d end up throwing back at the hotel—hours and hours would pass before Brienne could finally manage to crawl into bed, somehow still picking stray confetti out of hair that smelled like the gallons of celebratory champagne she and her teammates had sprayed in the locker room, falling asleep with the sound of the crowd still ringing in her ears.

After the celebrations, after the press conference and the flight back to Westeros and the ticker tape parade down the streets of King’s Landing, most of the team opted to delay the final leg of their journeys home in order to gather at Dacey Mormont’s apartment. They’d planned to have this meeting whether or not they returned from Volantis with a trophy in hand, but now their victory would serve to strengthen the new fight they were leaping into.

When Brienne was young and dreaming of a future as a professional athlete, becoming a de facto activist had never been part of that vision. Though if she were to think about it, she could draw a straight line from choosing to join the boy’s team in high school to now pushing for equal pay in women’s soccer. The girl’s team at Bitterbridge had been under-supported and largely ignored back then, and Brienne had been stunned to learn the situation wasn’t much better on the national scale, either. Even on the most successful women’s sports team in Westerosi history, players earned a fraction of what the men’s team made in a season—and the men hadn’t won a World Cup in years, let alone two in a row. The women’s team hoped to harness the current outpouring of excitement following their win, and use it to build enough public support so that the federation would have no choice but to meet them at the negotiating table. 

But first they would be taking to an entirely different table—the long, weathered dining table in Dacey’s high-ceilinged Cobbler’s Square apartment. She’d set out a buffet of Dornish takeout atop her large kitchen island, and the sounds of pleasant chatter bounced around the room as everyone milled about filling their plates. 

Being amongst her teammates was the one place in the world Brienne felt like she truly belonged. She was still too big and too ugly and too mannish, but it didn’t bother her as much when she was out there with them on the soccer field. Her height gave her the reach to keep the other team’s ball out of her goal. Her powerful muscles made her strong, and her reaction times fast. Her teammates couldn't care less what her face looked like—all that mattered was whether or not she could stop the ball before it crossed the goal line.

At twenty-eight years old she was considered a senior member of the National Team, and some of the newer faces seemed to look up to her as some sort of leader. It was an unusual position to find herself in—a few of the younger women had taken to coming to her for advice or sometimes even a shoulder to cry on, and though she wasn’t sure she was entirely qualified for either, she’d wound up becoming surprisingly protective of them.

When Brienne signed on with Stormlands FC three years ago and was looking for a place to live in Storm’s End, Shireen offered to take her apartment hunting. Wylla and Meera always dragged her out clubbing whenever Stormlands played White Harbor, and Brienne could always expect an invitation to grab a cup of coffee when Arya was in town visiting her boyfriend. Sansa had offered to braid her hair one day at practice, and over time the younger woman ending up turning it into a match day tradition. And it was Sansa and her girlfriend, Margaery Tyrell, who first approached Brienne with the idea to begin speaking out about the many inequities facing the women’s team.

Aside from Dacey’s husband and their toddler perched on her lap, Margaery was the only other person present who wasn’t on the National Team—she had been brought into the fold to game out their public relations strategy.   

Brienne liked Margaery. Though their time at Bitterbridge High had overlapped they hadn’t actually known each other growing up—she was Loras’ little sister, and even if Margaery hadn’t been three years younger she’d have been the type of girl Brienne deliberately avoided. Pretty, petite, and popular, she was everything Brienne would never be. But Bitterbridge was a long time ago, and all of those qualities had helped Margaery become one of of the country’s most sought-after publicists. They were lucky to have her on board as PR liaison for the newly-formed Women’s National Team Player’s Association.    

Her plan was simple: key players would make targeted media appearances and use the goodwill from their World Cup win to shift public opinion in favor of their fight for equal pay. The louder the voices of the fans grew, the harder it would be for the federation to ignore the many inequities being highlighted.

Margaery was also savvy enough to understand that a governing body rooted in misogyny wouldn’t lose sleep over ignoring the voices of women, so she’d devised a failsafe—in addition to filming team interviews in the coming days, she was also recruiting players from the Men’s National Team for a handful of strategic joint-appearances. After all, any changes to the federation’s compensation policies would affect the male players as well, so it was crucial to have their vocal support.

As the meal wrapped up and chatter began to shift to the task at hand, Margaery set about propping up a laptop at the end of the table. Osha and Alys both had young children, so they’d flown home directly after the parade and asked to be video conferenced in for the discussion. Once the video feed was working and everyone had waved their hellos, Margaery gracefully swept her shiny brown curls into a clip and got down to business.

“So we’ve got the four segments with Dacey, Asha and Wylla pre-recording this week,” Margaery began, pen poised over her notebook. “And we’ll keep you available if there’s any interest in down the line follow-ups.”

The three women nodded in agreement. As team captain, Dacey was used to speaking with the media, and both Asha and Wylla were fan favorites for their boisterous personalities.    

Margaery turned to Ygritte next. “Are you and Jon still okay with the Late Night with Mance Rayder interview?”

“For the record I think it’s fucking bullshit that we need a male chaperone to get anyone to listen to us,” Ygritte grumbled. “But yes, my husband will join me for Rayder’s show.”

Some of the women had taken a little less enthusiastically to this part of the strategy than others. Margaery smiled apologetically. “I know, it sucks, but the men’s players have a lot of pull with the federation and we need to remind everyone that we have their complete support.”

Nearby, Arya rolled her eyes. Sansa shot her younger sister a warning look. Half of the Stark family was involved in soccer in one way or another, which meant the sisters were intimately familiar with the federation’s messy bureaucracy. Not only was their mother the WWNT’s head coach, their older brother Robb played for the Men’s National Team, and Ygritte’s husband Jon was Robb’s teammate as well as being his first cousin. The Starks were something of a soccer dynasty in the eyes of the public, which made them natural choices when looking for spokespeople. All but Arya, whose spitfire temper and disdain for the media were no secret, so Margaery had already decided Sansa would be the sibling paired with Robb for a Good Morning Westeros segment.

“We’ve also got Oberyn Martell on board for the Baelish interview,” Margaery continued, pretending she hadn’t seen Arya’s sour expression. “How would you feel about being paired with him, Brienne?”

Brienne nearly choked on her drink. “You want to put me on camera?”

“After that clip of you putting Ramsay Bolton in his place went completely viral? Absolutely. The entire Internet’s going crazy over it, people love you. Oberyn wouldn’t shut up about it, actually, he said he and Ellaria have been holding it up to her belly to make sure their baby is born, and I quote, ‘a fucking badass.’ He specifically asked for you.”

Brienne wasn’t as quick to blush these days as she once had been, but hearing something like that was enough to bring a telltale heat creeping up over her face.

Though she was considered a key fixture of the WWNT’s roster and a star player for Stormlands FC, Brienne still struggled to embrace the more public aspects of her job. The media made her nervous. It was hard enough being a woman in the public eye looking the way she did—even if she’d grown to appreciate her body over the years, the last thing she wanted was to attract more attention than was absolutely necessary. In the past she’d only had to endure comments from classmates and the odd passerby, but now a quick search of her name on social media would reveal untold amounts of public scorn. Not that she ever looked—she knew from experience not to seek out news about herself. But she had a contract, so she gritted her teeth and put up with the media appearances required of her, and in all other circumstances preferred falling back to give her more photogenic teammates the spotlight.

Occasionally she slipped up. She blamed the elation of their World Cup victory on what had happened in that post-game interview with Ramsay Bolton. Wylla was already pulling up the clip on her phone so they could all watch it for the hundredth time.

“Goalkeeper and Golden Glove recipient Brienne Tarth wasn’t mincing words following her team’s thrilling 2-0 World Cup victory over Pentos,” the newscaster was saying.

“Turn up the volume,” Osha’s voice demanded through the laptop speakers. “I want to hear it again, too!”

Wylla turned the sound up as loud as it could go as Brienne’s face filled the screen. The tight braids Sansa had woven into her hair before the match had grown frizzy from the humid Volantine evening, and her skin was still faintly pink from exertion. Her unscarred cheek faced the camera—a habit she’d drilled into herself in the few years since she’d gotten it—awaiting Bolton’s next question with a polite smile on her face.

“So, a shutout victory today,” Ramsay Bolton’s voice sounded from offscreen.

“Thanks, yeah.” Brienne answered. “I just want to credit every player on our team, every member of our coaching staff—all the work that went into building the foundations for us to execute that win today. Pentos played hard today, they were incredibly tough competition and made for a really exciting game.”

“Right. And obviously the tournament will never be as exciting as the men’s, but you ladies put on your best effort for the sake of your country.”

Brienne’s smile faltered slightly as his words registered. “Excuse me?”

“Well even just in terms of skill level, most people would agree your games aren’t as entertaining as the men’s, but still you came here with your best effort and I’m sure your fans appreciate it.”

Back at Dacey’s table, Brienne cringed, knowing what was coming next.

“We came here to win a World Cup, Ramsay, and that’s exactly what we did. I’ll entertain your question when our men’s team can say the same.”

There were whoops and shouts around the table as her teammates applauded her answer. Brienne was only embarrassed—she hadn’t meant to sound so vicious.

“Sexist fucker,” Arya snarled from across the table. “You should’ve bit his ear off.”

“And that’s why Marg isn’t sending you on interviews,” Mya laughed.

Back on Wylla’s phone, the newscaster was moving on to the next story.

“As for that men’s team, questions still unanswered over whether their top scorer will remain benched this coming season, having suffered a torn ACL in last year’s World Cup semi-final match against Qohor—”

Brienne reached for the screen and swiped out of the video, ending it.

“See, Brienne? You’ll be so great.” 

“But I insulted his team, how could Oberyn want to share an interview with me after that?”

“Because he knows you were right?” Arya suggested. “Even Robb admits they keep choking under pressure. You were just stating a fact.”

Asha placed a consoling hand on her shoulder. “Oberyn’s a good guy, I dated his sister for a while in college. He’ll have loved the fact that you didn’t care about massaging his teammates’ precious egos.”

One of those teammates’ faces flashed across Brienne’s mind, and she briefly wondered what he would have had to say about her soundbite. He’d always been quick to laugh when she’d known him, his eyes sparkling at the prospect of some verbal sparring. 

“We can do some extra media coaching, if you like,” Margaery said, wrenching her back to the present. “But Oberyn’s a pro, he’ll make sure it goes well.”

Sansa offered her a sympathetic smile. “Listen, I know none of us have much downtime before the season starts and I’m sure this isn’t how you want to be spending it—”

“Sansa, no, of course I’ll do it. This is important. It’s just—” she turned to Margaery. “Wouldn’t you rather have someone more camera-ready?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, you’re already so much better at this than you even know. People stop and listen to you, because your passion for the sport always shines through. That’s exactly what we need.”

“Brienne likes to forget she’s a world-famous athlete,” Shireen joked.

Shireen wasn’t wrong—it was still a difficult concept for Brienne to wrap her head around. Though she’d been on the National Team’s roster for eight years now, she hadn’t seen much game time until four years prior when she’d made a name for herself with some impressive overtime saves in the last World Cup. Her profile had been steadily growing ever since, and Margaery had assured her it would only continue now that she’d been awarded this year’s Golden Glove trophy. And while Brienne had long gotten used to strangers staring at her—they’d been doing so all her life—this sort of attention still felt completely foreign. The first time a little girl had come up to her in public for an autograph, Brienne had been so stunned she’d nearly forgotten how to sign her own name.

Margaery clapped her hands together. “Well then, now that we’ve got that sorted, I’ll be sending out an email to everyone with talking points. Make sure you’re familiar enough with them that you don’t sound too rehearsed. And if there’s anything you need help with, I’m just a phone call away.”

Brienne returned Margaery’s smile with a shaky one of her own. Her teammates were counting on her, and she couldn't let them down.

Storm’s End was still hot in late summer, though the evenings were growing cooler thanks to the breeze carried in across the rough seas of Shipbreaker Bay. Nestled above soaring, white cliffs that plummeted into a rocky coastline, the city got its name from the ancient castle it had sprung up around centuries ago. Then, it had been host to kings and sieges; now it was a tourist destination for history buffs and retirees looking to hike along the picturesque cliffs.

Brienne liked the city because it was the closest she’d lived to her father since graduating high school. She’d been with Stormlands FC for three years now, following two years with the Oldtown Beacons and a year with Braavos City FC before that. Her uncle had fallen ill not long after he’d visited for her graduation from Bitterbridge, and her father had moved into his home on the island of Tarth to help care for him. Emmett passed eighteen months later. Grieving, Selwyn had decided to continue living in his late brother’s home rather than move back to the mainland, putting down roots on the island that bore the name of their ancestors. And now that Brienne was living in Storm’s End, he was only a ferry ride away.

Most of her teammates lived closer to the more lively city center, but Brienne preferred to rent a modest townhouse not far from the Stormlands training facility. The sun had set by the time she finally made it home, white light from the rising moon glinting off the tiny sliver of sea she could make out from the balcony off her bedroom. After weeks of travel and tough competition she wanted nothing more than to kick her feet up on that balcony and relax, but she had piles of dirty laundry to deal with and a growling stomach to sort out first.   

She wheeled her suitcase down the hall and unzipped it in front of the washing machine. A small smile tugged at her lips when she saw the Golden Glove trophy nestled amongst her clothes—the award was meant to recognize the best goalkeeper of the entire tournament, and they had given it to her. She hadn’t expected that. Cradling it in her hands she carried it to the living room, looking for a spot that wouldn’t be too prominent—she’d hate for it to look like she was showing off. She settled for a spot on a bookshelf that was looking a little too empty, and returned to the hall to sort her laundry.

Once the washer was going, she ventured into the kitchen to figure out dinner. Though her exhaustion was trying to tempt her into ordering takeout, she grabbed one of the meals she kept prepped in the freezer for occasions like this and popped it into the microwave. Between all of the post-World Cup celebrations and events she’d indulged plenty, and it was time for her off-season training regimen to begin.

She tried not to pace around the kitchen as her food heated. Now that she was home, it was harder to ignore the wave of anxiety slowly growing beneath her ribs. The interview was still a few days away, looming before her like a specter. At least Margaery had arranged for Baelish to tape it in Storm’s End—Brienne would have the familiarity of her home turf, and Oberyn would fly in from Dorne the morning of.

She pulled up Oberyn’s social media on her phone while she ate. She was familiar with his professional record, of course—attacking midfielder, in his five years with Sunspear Vipers FC he’d contributed twenty-two goals and thirty-seven assists for the Dornish team so far—but she wasn’t sure what to expect of him as an interview partner. He certainly had a more active online presence than she did; his feed was consistently updated for his two million followers, sharing a steady flow of images from Vipers games and his private life. Brienne scrolled through several pictures of Oberyn and his strikingly beautiful girlfriend—posing together in a hotel room mirror on their way to a black tie event, a candid of the two of them sharing a celebratory hug after a game, a selfie he took kissing her pregnant belly as they relaxed beside a pool.

Something twisted in Brienne’s chest. It wasn’t anxiety, and it didn’t have anything to do with Oberyn in particular; she was familiar with this dull ache, the way it would sometimes creep up on her without warning. She shoved it back down as she always did.

As usual, she was being silly. She was happy with her life. Sure, there were things about it she might change if pressed—certain things that hadn’t gone her way, certain choices she had made—but she’d had to make sacrifices to get to this point in her career, like anyone, and really couldn’t complain. She’d already accomplished more than she’d ever dreamed of. Her father was in good health. She had friends who cared about her. She felt loved and supported, and was grateful for all of them.

She was happy. Really.

And if the sum total of her love life after Bitterbridge had only been a few forgettable dates and even fewer disappointing sexual encounters, well, so be it. She had more important things to focus on.

She scrolled back to the top of Oberyn’s feed. He was the kind of athlete the press fawned over. Extremely talented, personable and good-looking, he knew how to take command of an interview. Brienne hoped all of that would be enough to distract from any of her shortcomings, and that she could count on him to take over if she became tongue-tied.

Her finger hovered over the search bar, another name floating to the front of her mind. Then the washer loudly trilled its little tune to signal the end of the cycle, snapping her back to reality and saving her from herself. She closed out of the app with a sharp intake of breath and placed her phone facedown on the table. That was a path she never allowed herself go down. She was afraid she wouldn’t be able to find her way back.

The final day of Stormlands FC’s summer youth clinic fell the afternoon before Brienne was due to sit for the Baelish interview. She always tried to stop by for at least one of the clinic sessions, knowing how excited she would have been as a child to meet a player from her local club. Conversing with children wasn’t really her strong suit—she’d barely known how to talk to other children even when she was one—but at least she could offer some small amount of advice and encouragement to the young players. This year, the visit also made for a welcome distraction from her growing nervousness over the interview.

She’d been honest when she said she wanted to help, but no amount of Margaery’s well-meant media training would make Brienne feel at ease in front of a camera. At least it would all be over after tomorrow. She’d watched some of the appearances her teammates had already made and they’d done brilliantly—surely if there was a need for more press, they’d be the first choice of the networks. 

After the clinic wrapped up and the last of the children had left, Brienne hung back to help Podrick, the club’s equipment manager, put everything away. He’d waved off the coaches and tried to wave her off as well, but she knew he always appreciated the company.

They walked side-by-side across the field, a mesh bag of soccer balls thrown over her shoulder and a stack of squat orange cones in his hands, though as the top of his messy brown head barely grazed her shoulder he needed to take two steps to match every one of her long strides. A recent college graduate, Podrick was quiet and often stuttered his words whenever he actually did speak, but he was observant, too, picking up on Brienne’s anxiety when he mentioned to her how Baelish’s team had already stopped by the training facilities that morning to scout the best location for filming.   

“I think you’re really b-brave for doing it,” he assured her. 

She tried to ignore the unpleasant somersault her stomach was performing. “It’s part of the job, Pod.”

“I don’t just m-mean the tv stuff,” Podrick said. “The whole thing. St-standing up for equal treatment. It’s really c-cool.” 

Brienne allowed herself a small smile. That’s what she was doing it for, wasn’t it? If by putting herself out there she could inspire just one person to believe in their own worth, too, it will have been worth it.

Once all the equipment was back inside Pod gently shooed her away, needing time to go through his checklists to make sure nothing was missing. But Brienne’s feet carried her back to the field, not ready to go home to be alone with her thoughts quite yet. The sun was beginning to set, its golden light casting long shadows across the grass. There were a few pieces of trash littering the sidelines where the kids’ family members had stood—empty plastic water bottles, a discarded newspaper—and she set about picking them up.

The newspaper was folded open to the sports section, a photograph of Dacey and Asha hoisting the World Cup trophy in the air accompanied by a relatively positive piece outlining the changes they were asking the federation for. But her eyes lingered over the brief article below theirs.

"Capital Knights FC continues to be tight-lipped regarding the status of their star striker. When asked if he would remain on the injury list for the upcoming season, a spokesperson for the club refused to answer questions and gave no indication of a recovery timeline…"

Brienne’s phone rang, startling her. She quickly dropped the paper into the recycling bin and fished her cell out of her pocket. She’d barely gotten a greeting out before Margaery launched in.

“Brienne, great news, Oberyn Martell had to drop out of the interview.”

Brienne’s heart sank. She’d warmed to the idea of him, had been counting on him to have her back going up against Petyr Baelish. “How is that great news?”

“Well, Ellaria went into labor a bit early—it’s a girl, by the way—so, I called in a favor to my brother Loras to see if he’d fill in instead—”

She and Loras had never been close in high school, but they’d reconnected recently thanks to Margaery and got along well enough. Beloved by fans, he was a fixture of the Men’s National Team and as the league’s only openly gay player he’d dealt with his fair share of horrible interviews over the years, but somehow always managed to charm his way into positive coverage.

“—but of course he’s too busy with launching his and Ren’s new clothing line, but he put me in touch with Jaime Lannister instead, and he’s agreed to step in for Oberyn!”

Brienne’s ears were ringing. It had been a while since she’d last allowed herself think of him, since she’d even allowed herself to speak his name—

“Are you still there?”

Brienne realized she’d been mouthing wordlessly into the receiver. She felt lightheaded.

“Your brother—he—why—” she choked out.

“Oh!” Margaery sounded concerned. “He thought you’d be happy! Loras said the three of you played together back in high school. And since Jaime’s the highest-paid footballer in the country it would be such a good juxtaposition, a way to really drive our point home. He sounded really enthusiastic about the whole initiative!”

“And he—he knows I’ll be there?”

“Of course! Actually his publicist didn’t want him doing any press, what with the injury and all, but as soon as I mentioned your name he jumped in to override her.”

Brienne put a hand to her forehead, tried to ignore the nausea creeping up her throat. He just wanted to help out an old teammate—it was a perfectly kind thing to do. She was the ridiculous one here, having put so much effort into avoiding any trace of him all this time. They had stolen a few moments together, a decade ago. He probably barely remembered what had passed between them. Brienne was likely no more than a footnote in Jaime Lannister’s sexual history by now. A blip—a few weeks at the end of high school where he’d been bored enough to fool around with the ugly girl.

She took a shaky breath and let it out slowly. Not fifteen minutes ago, Pod had called her brave. She would have to be.

“Okay,” Brienne said. “If that’s—sure. Okay. I guess you’ll just go over everything with him in the morning and I’ll catch up with him then…”

The door to the field house opened and closed behind her. She turned, shielding her eyes against the sun, expecting to find Pod. But this man was too tall to be Pod. 

“What time did he say he was getting in?” Brienne whispered.

“Hmm, looks like he should’ve landed an hour ago?”

Realization dawning, she lowered her hand from her eyes as the man began to walk towards her.

“Marg, I’ve got to go. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Brienne hung up the phone.

He looked like something out of a dream as came to a stop before her, backlit against the setting sun and gleaming, limned in its molten gold, a knowing smile twitching the corners of his lips.

Jaime.

Chapter Text

The memory of that last morning with Jaime would come to her unbidden over the years—waking up to his smile, his soft green eyes, his tousled hair, the dawning light on his skin. The way he kissed her for the last time. It was a well-worn memory, smoothed down over time like a stone battered by the sea, the waves carrying it back to shore no matter how many times she tried to fling it away.

To have him standing before her now was almost more than Brienne could bear. And gods help her, he’d somehow grown even more devastatingly handsome in the decade since she’d last seen him in the flesh.

The years had rid Jaime of the last of his boyishness, the angle of his jaw sharper now, the hollows of his cheeks more pronounced, shadowed by a few days’ worth of stubble. Though hidden behind dark sunglasses, she’d seen his green eyes often enough in her dreams to describe them blindfolded and knew by the tilt of his lips they’d be twinkling at her mischievously, proud of himself for catching her so unawares.

He had a duffle bag slung across his back, the strap of it cutting a line across his chest. The charcoal grey hoodie he wore beneath looked almost black in the early evening light, and he stood with both hands tucked into the pockets of his jeans, effortlessly stylish. His sun-bleached curls were pulled into a loose knot, low on the back of his head and she had a sudden, visceral memory of the way it had fallen like a golden curtain around his face, the ends tickling her jaw as he moved above her—

Jaime cleared his throat in greeting. “Your uh—” he directed a thumb back towards the field house “—Pod? Said I might find you here.”

His voice washed over her, like fingertips tickling down her spine. Margaery hadn’t given her enough time to prepare for this; she was frozen to the spot like a fool. A mortifying thought suddenly occurred to her.

“You—you—“ Brienne stammered, tripping over her words. “You should know this wasn’t my idea.”

Jaime’s eyebrows twitched briefly in what seemed like irritation. He removed his sunglasses, folding them into the collar of his sweatshirt. There was something different about his face now that she could see his eyes. It wasn’t a physical change—there was no single thing she could point to—but he seemed…lighter than she remembered. Brighter. 

“Well shit, I was expecting something more along the lines of ‘Hi Jaime, nice to see you, it’s been a while.’”

She blushed. “I just didn’t want you to think…” What? That she might have requested him? That she was still pathetic and lovesick, after all this time? Of course she wasn’t. “Margaery’s been the one organizing everything. It wasn’t my suggestion.”

“Of course it wasn’t.” Jaime frowned. “I mean, look at you—you’re a big star now.”

She bristled. “So are you.”

He shrugged, noncommittal.

“You know, all this time…I always wondered when our paths would cross again. I sort of—” he paused, softening again as he dragged his eyes back to hers. “I followed your career, a bit. It was always clear you were going places.”

Brienne’s breath caught. She’d spent ten years attempting to outrun his memory, and he’d been one step behind her, this whole time?

“They were wasting you in Oldtown, even before…” he trailed off. Her fingers itched to cover her cheek from view; she made a fist, pressed it to her hip.

“Stormlands colors look better on you,” he continued, a sly smile appearing on his lips. “Did you keep track of me, too?”

“You’re not exactly easy to avoid.”

Oh, but she’d certainly tried. Seeing him on the covers of magazines, in newspapers, in every sports broadcast, had been torture. Not because he’d hurt her—he’d done nothing wrong and she’d never regretted what had passed between them, not for a moment—but because she’d always understood what they’d had would never have lasted. Because she knew he hadn’t been serious about her, because he was never serious about anything. Because they’d always had an expiration date. Because she’d been clear-eyed about all of it and fell for him anyway. Because she’d broken her own heart, and seeing his face everywhere she looked was simply a reminder of her own foolishness.

“Jaime,” she sighed suddenly, too rattled by his presence to keep up with whatever banter he was surely trying to draw her into.

He smiled, tilting his head. “Brienne.”

“Why did you come?”

“I wanted to help.” He took a cautious step towards her. “We were friends, once, and I’ve been feeling a bit useless lately.”

His knee. No matter how practiced she was at avoiding news about him, some things still managed to creep in.

“I heard about the…” Brienne gestured vaguely at his leg. “It’s bad?”

“Worse than we’ve let on to the press, yeah.” He brought a hand to his chin, raked it over the scruff covering his jaw. “Ruptured ACL. Surgery seemed to go okay but I fucked it again trying to rehab too quickly. So—second surgery, slower recovery timeline. Pain in my fucking ass, and it seems like it might be going okay this time, but—” he patted his thigh “—prognosis is ‘maybe.’ No promises I’ll ever get back to where I was.”

“Oh, Jaime.” Her heart ached for him. Any injury could be devastating to an athlete, but for someone like Jaime, a once-in-a-generation talent at the height of his career, the possibility of losing the skill that so defined him would be nothing short of earth-shattering.     

He stared at her for a long moment then blinked, bemusement settling over his face. He shook his head. “How do you do that?”

“Do what?”

“I haven’t seen in you ten years, and yet when I tell you my sob story you seem like you actually care.”

“I do care,” Brienne insisted.

He squinted at her.

“Then where in the hells did you go?”

“Where did I—?”

“When I came home for the holidays that first year I wanted to see you, but there was a ‘for sale’ sign in your yard and the house was empty. You’d vanished.”

Brienne was surprised he’d even given her a second thought after their parting. She tried to bite back her disbelief.

“My uncle got sick—it happened so fast. My father sold our house and moved to Tarth so he could care for him in the time he had left,” she explained.

“Gods, I’m sorry. Shit.”

Her heart was pounding. “You wanted to see me?”

“You think I’d forget about you, Brienne Tarth?”

Jaime was looking at her in that way she remembered, the way only he could. He had no idea what that look did to her, how it melted her from the inside out, how badly it made her wish it meant something more. She looked away.

“Did Margaery send you the talking points?” Brienne asked, desperate for a change of subject.

“She did. Very streamlined operation you’ve got going on here.”

“And you’ll be able to stick to them?”

She squared her jaw and forced herself to meet Jaime’s eye again. He seemed torn between annoyance and mirth.

“I’ve done an interview or two in my time, yeah,” he replied. “Though if you’re so untrusting of my capabilities we could go over everything together. Maybe over dinner, or—”

Brienne wasn’t really listening to him, her nerves getting the better of her as she interrupted. “Jaime, the future of women’s soccer in Westeros is riding on the outcome of these interviews. So many people are counting on us to get this right. Any misstep will be picked apart in the press—I need to know you’re taking this seriously.”

“Of course I’m taking this seriously. How could you think that I’d—” he paused, frowning. “Was this a bad idea, do you not want me here? I’m sure we can get them to push it—I can get one of the other guys to take my place, Sandor owes me a favor…”

He sounded so sincere, she suddenly felt embarrassed for snapping at him—whatever complicated feelings she was hanging onto from the past weren’t his fault. He hadn’t earned her ire.

“No, don’t do that. I’m sorry.” She hadn’t even noticed the tension in his body until she saw his shoulders relax at her words. “It’s just all this media stuff…I can’t be the reason they turn us into a laughingstock. Do you understand?”

“I’d never let them laugh at you.”

Jaime looked like he wanted to say something more, but just then the door to the field house clanged open again, echoing across the quiet field. Shyly, Podrick stepped onto the grass behind them, cell phone clutched to his chest.

“Sorry!” he apologized. “I was just hoping—could I get a p-picture with you, before you go?” 

Jaime shared a quick glance with Brienne before beckoning him over. Podrick hurried to where they stood, passing his phone to Brienne so she could take the picture. Jaime placed a hand atop his shoulder and smiled kindly for the camera—years of stardom and thousands of photos with fans would have trained that smile into him—but she could see the way it didn’t quite reach his eyes. She found herself trying to remember the sound of his laugh.

After stammering his thanks to Jaime, Podrick looked at Brienne expectantly.

“Um, I was going to lock up the equipment room for the night, unless there’s anything you n-need?”

“No, I’m alright. I should head home as well.”

“Do you want to get a bite to eat? We could go over Margaery’s list,” Jaime asked.

He could hardly know what little good that would do. She’d just spend the whole meal desperately trying to keep her thoughts out of the past. The less time they spent together throughout this whole ordeal, the better.

Brienne shook her head. “I really can’t.”

Podrick perked up, turning to Jaime. “If you’re hungry, I can tell you all the b-best p-places to eat. Or I could give you a r-ride to your hotel? Are you staying nearby? I’m happy to help.”

On another person such eagerness might have seemed sycophantic, but on Podrick it was only endearing. Jaime raised a questioning brow to Brienne, as if to confirm the young man’s motives. She bit her lip to hold back a laugh.

“Don’t keep him out too late,” Brienne called to Podrick, already moving towards the parking lot. “He’s got a big day tomorrow.”

When she reached into her pocket to pull out her car keys, her hands were trembling.

Brienne only managed a few hours of restless tossing and turning that night, her nerves locked in a war between thoughts of the interview and thoughts of Jaime. She gave up on any hope of a full night’s sleep as dawn began to break, deciding instead to return to the training facility well ahead of their call time in order to get her workout in before the chaos of the day. It proved to be a good idea; the exercise helped to clear her mind, as it always did, and by the time she’d finished with her shower she was feeling strangely calm. It was similar to the feeling she’d get before a match—knowing she had prepared as much as possible, and only had to step out onto the field to prove it. Today would be a different sort of match, but she was going to face it with the same determination as ever.

The main part of the locker room had been set aside for use as a green room, and Margaery arrived as Brienne was polishing off a protein bar.

“Oh good, you’re wearing it! Sansa was worried she’d overstepped,” Margaery said in greeting, smiling brightly.

After the meeting at Dacey’s house, Sansa had insisted on helping Brienne pick out a suitable outfit for the interview. Brienne knew she couldn’t carry off the kind of styles some of her other teammates wore off the field and was initially worried about what that kind of “help” this might entail, but Sansa had a good eye for these things.

“I’m grateful for her help,” Brienne replied. “Remind me to thank her again if I make it out of this alive.”

“Don’t be silly, you’re going to kill this.” Margaery slid an arm around Brienne’s back and gave her a reassuring squeeze.

Sansa had instructed Brienne to wear one of the commemorative T-shirts that had been printed for their World Cup win, a black crew neck emblazoned with WORLD CHAMPIONS in gold lettering across the front. She’d picked out a pale blue blazer to top it off, and directed Brienne to take it to a tailor for a proper fitting. The end result was a garment with just enough structure to flatter Brienne’s broad frame, while actually managing to make her feel a little feminine. Margaery was showing her how to roll the sleeves up for a more casual look when Baelish’s makeup team descended upon the locker room. She knew from experience that not much could be done to improve her looks, inwardly cringing as they puzzled over her face for an embarrassing length of time. Eventually, they acquiesced to Margaery’s instruction to keep things simple with only some light mascara and powder to cut down on shine.

Brienne took a cautious peek at the mirror after they left, and was surprised to find she still felt like herself—just a version of herself that had been lightly polished around the edges, cleaned up enough for prime time television.

Margaery was gently smoothing down a few stubborn flyaways from Brienne’s ponytail when Jaime finally wandered in, a paper cup of coffee in hand. He wore the same jeans as the night before and a plain white T-shirt. Despite the simplicity of his clothing he somehow looked as if he’d stepped out of the pages of a magazine, already disconcertingly handsome though he’d not even sat for hair and makeup.

His hair was loose, the ends of it just grazing his shoulders, and when he raised a hand to drag it back from his face Brienne caught a glimpse of what looked like a tattoo of a large sword trailing down the inside of his bicep. The chin of a roaring lion peeked out from beneath his other sleeve, the rest of the animal’s head disappearing up under his clothed shoulder. Mouth suddenly dry, Brienne swallowed. 

“Jaime Lannister,” Margaery said in greeting, striding forward to shake his hand. “I don’t think we’ve ever officially met—Margaery Tyrell.”

Jaime flashed her a sparkling grin. “Maybe when you were a kid, but not officially, no.”

“Thanks again for doing this on such short notice.” She looked around him, as if she was waiting for someone else to come in. “Is Pia with you?”

“Nah, she knows you’ve got this under control.” Jaime winked at her. “Besides, I know the drill—hit the talking points, deflect everything else.”

“I knew we could count on you! Well then, if you’ll both excuse me for a minute I’m going to track down the producer and let him know we’re just about ready.”

Margaery slipped into the hallway, and Brienne found herself alone with Jaime for the second time in twenty-four hours. He raised his coffee towards her in greeting.

“You look good.”

Self-conscious, she smoothed a hand over the front of her blazer. “Sansa picked it out for me—she made me get it tailored.”

“Blue always was your color.”

“So you’re a fashion expert, now, too?” Brienne had no idea why she was arguing the point—he’d almost certainly meant it kindly—but the sense of calm she’d found earlier seemed to be slipping out of her grasp the longer she spent in Jaime’s presence. It was maddening how much of an effect he still had on her.

Jaime’s eyebrows shot up in amusement. “Fashion expert? Definitely not. Haven’t had to be—I’m told I could make a pile of rags look good.”

She huffed out a laugh in spite of herself. “Still humble as ever, I see.”

“You disagree?” It was just as she’d remembered, the way he’d suggest something hoping to get a rise out of her. After all this time it shouldn’t have worked, and yet…

“I don’t see how my opinion on the subject matters.”

“Of course you don’t.” He took a sip of coffee. “Brienne Tarth, still unable to take a compliment.”

“Jaime Lannister, still extremely annoying.”

He laughed then, loud and genuine, and she couldn’t help but smile along with him. She’d missed the sound.

Margaery returned a moment later to usher them over to the indoor field where they’d be recording the interview. Three stools had been arranged near one of the goals, and members of the production team were busy making final checks of various pieces of recording equipment. Petyr Baelish didn’t look up when they entered, already seated and engrossed in conversation with the producer crouched at his side. The two men were flipping through a sheaf of notes, marking up some last-minute edits.

“Listen, don’t let yourself get complacent with Baelish,” Jaime muttered, watching them. “The man’s a weasel. He’ll flatter you just enough to let your guard drop, and before you know it he’ll have you confessing to murder on national television.”   

A slight exaggeration, but Jaime would know—he’d only been nineteen when Baelish interviewed him for the first time, a new, young addition to the Men’s National Team roster in the midst of preparing for his first World Cup. Baelish had somehow dredged up Jaime’s old Kingslayer nickname, pressing for details Jaime refused to give. But details didn’t matter to the public—they liked the nickname enough that it stuck. Again.

Though she she’d never allowed herself to watch, she knew Jaime had been interviewed by Baelish again countless times in the years since. Better the devil you know, she supposed.

Before Brienne could reply, a young woman began attaching tiny lavalier microphones to their clothes. Her dark eyes flicked flirtatiously to Jaime’s as she threaded the wire through the front of his shirt, touching him more than was likely necessary. Brienne looked away.

When the producer finally brought Brienne and Jaime over to the makeshift set, Baelish leaned forward on his stool to shake both of their hands in turn. 

“Jaime, always lovely to see you,” Baelish said, arching an eyebrow. “Though I admit, I was surprised to hear you’d be joining us in Oberyn’s stead. You’ve been rather shy with the media, of late.” His eyes flicked briefly to Jaime’s knee, like he might be able to see clear through the denim covering it and discern how bad the injury was for himself.

“How could I resist? I know how much you love surprises.” Jaime’s lips lifted into a smile, but Brienne saw the slight falseness in it, the way he’d already begun guarding his emotions though the interview had not yet begun.

“And Brienne Tarth, I don’t believe I’ve ever had the pleasure?” Baelish was looking up at her with a placid smile on his face, but she had the distinct impression he was already probing for weakness.

Brienne responded with the same generic pleasantries she always used with the press. Beside her, Jaime’s phone buzzed inside his pocket. She watched from the corner of her eye as he drew it out partway and frowned at the screen, turning it off completely before tucking it away.          

“Shall we get started?” Baelish asked, motioning for them to take the stools opposite.

Ducking to avoid one of the boom microphones, Jaime stepped past her to claim the seat closest to the camera that would be filming their wide shot. Maybe it was ego that led him to do it, or simply coincidence, but it meant Brienne would be able to sit at a slight angle in order to better hide her scarred cheek from view. How had Jaime realized she would want that?

He hadn’t even asked her about the scar. Why would he? He’d probably read about it in the papers when it had happened, same as everyone. Maybe he’d kept quiet out of kindness. Maybe it was indifference.

Once the cameras were rolling Baelish recited a brief introduction—a summary of the World Cup victory, how Brienne’s teammates had begun raising their voices for equal pay, the movement that was already beginning to grow around them. He sprinkled in some details about Jaime as well, like his superstar status and the injury behind his season-long absence.

“Now Jaime, you know I have to ask, so let’s get it out of the way upfront,” Baelish began, his tone apologetic. “You’ve been very scant with details regarding this most recent injury, so it begs the question—will you be coming back next season, or is this the end for you?”

She didn’t think Baelish noticed the slight ripple of hostility spreading through Jaime’s body.

“Petyr, obviously I’d love to tell you, but you know as well as I do that what I’m here to talk about is more important than whatever assessment my trainer’s made about my physical fitness.”

It was a good deflection, delivered with just enough self-abasement in his tone to come off as charming rather than combative.

“Certainly, certainly.” There was a flicker of annoyance in Baelish’s cool smile. “So let’s discuss, as you’ve said, these very important matters. Important enough that you’ve decided to sit for your first interview in nearly a year. So why now? Why take up this issue?”

“Because I knew if Brienne Tarth was involved, I’d be crazy not to throw my support behind it.”

Stunned, Brienne fought to maintain a neutral expression. Surely it had been more than that.

“And I understand you two have known each other for a long time?”

Do we know each other? she thought. I lost my virginity to him and haven’t been able to stop thinking about him for ten godsdamned years. I think I was half in love with him then and might still be a little bit in love with him now.

“We went to high school together,” Jaime answered.

“We haven’t kept in touch,” Brienne added. She felt Jaime glance her way.

“And still, here you are, Jaime, lending your support to this issue of equal pay. Maybe you can help our viewers make sense of it, then—because of course equal pay sounds logical enough, but opponents of the movement have also raised some significant points. For instance, women’s soccer brings in far less money than men’s soccer in a typical season. Is it fair to demand an equal share of the revenue, despite having a smaller audience?”

Though he’d asked the question with kindness in his voice there seemed to be little present in Baelish’s probing, grey eyes. Brienne fixed her own on the tip of his pointed goatee instead; she’d grown frustrated by how much of the interview he’d already directed towards Jaime.

“The women’s team has steadily increased revenues year over year, yet our compensation hasn’t increased as a result. How is that fair?” she interjected before Jaime could answer. “The federation says we need to be a bigger draw—fine, but what are they doing to help? It all comes back to allotment of resources, doesn’t it? The playing field—pun not intended—isn’t fair from the start. The federation invests more resources into the men’s team, which of course translates into a greater ability to draw in more viewers, more fans, more customers. The women’s team is working with a fraction of what the men receive and are made to feel like it’s our fault for failing to generate as much interest, when in reality it’s entirely within the federation’s control.”

“Brienne is absolutely right,” Jaime added. “Not investing in women’s soccer is a choice, not an inevitability, and the federation has made their choice clear by not promoting the women’s team in the same way they do the men’s.”

Brienne’s earlier nervousness was a distant memory now, her confidence growing with every word of Jaime’s support. 

Not so easily satisfied, Baelish flipped to another page of his notes. “That raises another interesting point—one you’ve already made headlines for, Brienne, when a reporter suggested that women’s soccer simply isn’t as entertaining as men’s soccer.”

Ramsay. Of course he wouldn’t be able to resist bringing that up.

“I’d like to hear what qualities are considered necessary to make something ‘entertaining,’” Brienne responded tightly. “Because I’m willing to bet the same people who say women’s soccer isn’t entertaining have never actually watched a game, and are instead parroting their own preconceptions as fact.”

“Well, some have argued that female athletes are simply unable to play at the same intensity as their male counterparts.”

Jaime leaned forward slightly. “The women’s team are away from their families, their friends, their loved ones, just as much as we are. They sacrifice just as much—more, even—and do it for less. Not just for less money, but with fewer resources, poorer facilities, and less respect on the whole. They’re the defending World Cup champions for two tournaments running now, while the men haven’t made it out of the semi-finals. And if anyone doubts their intensity after hearing that—remember, I played on the same team as Brienne in high school. I know what intensity is.”

He paused to smile then, a flash of white teeth. For the first time in years, Brienne recalled the way Jaime’s eyes had narrowed in the moments before his fist found Ron Connington’s nose. Just like Connington, Baelish didn’t sense the danger lurking in that knife-sharp grin.

“And if that’s not bad enough,” Jaime continued, “at every turn they’re having to put up with uninformed, misogynistic, shithead reporters who should know better than to question their skill.”

The shocked murmurs of the crew rippled around them. Baelish’s own plastered-on grin briefly faltered. He twisted in his seat, seeking out the eyes of his producer.

“I suppose we’ll have to bleep ‘shithead’ for broadcast?” Baelish asked pleasantly. He turned back to Brienne and Jaime without waiting for the answer.

“That’s a fairly loaded accusation, Jaime. You understand I don’t ask these questions because I agree with them, only to point out the tone of the current public dialogue.”

Jaime looked like he was ready to say something else, but it would do neither of them any good to make an enemy of Petyr Baelish. Brienne scrambled for a way to pull the interview back to friendlier territory.

“Of course, Petyr. The point is—none of us want to have to do this,” she explained. “What we want is to play soccer. But we deserve to be paid fairly for it. We deserve safe facilities. We deserve to have the federation support us just as they support the men’s team. I think most people would agree that’s not asking very much.”

“Indeed—and as we’re just about out of time, I think that’s an excellent note to end on. You’ve certainly presented a compelling case. We will of course be following future developments closely, and will be sure to bring our viewers all of the latest as your effort progresses. I very much appreciate both of you taking the time to sit down with me today.”

Baelish’s smile didn’t slip again, even after the cameras stopped rolling and the crew began to swirl around them once more. 

“At least I didn’t say ‘fuck’,” Jaime quipped, reaching under his shirt to detach his microphone. The audio assistant from earlier materialized out of nowhere, eager to help.

“No one will doubt your passion for the cause.”

Baelish winked as he stood to leave, and Brienne realized for the first time how short the man was; probably no taller than Podrick. It was startling, given how intimidating she'd found him.

“Obviously I need to maintain a certain…appearance of impartiality, but I admit I don’t mind watching the federation squirm a bit.” He reached out to shake their hands again. “Best of luck.”

Brienne’s mind whirled as her own microphone was unclipped, trying to remember everything she’d said; if she’d managed to hit all of the talking points, if she’d come off sounding rude.

“You two were perfect,” Margaery murmured, appearing out of nowhere to pull her into a hug.

Brienne chewed her lip. “Really? I wasn’t too aggressive? I felt a little aggressive.”

“Perfect,” Margaery reiterated, giving Brienne another squeeze. “I’ve just got to wrap up some details with production, but I’ll meet you in the locker room in a few—we’re still getting lunch together, right?”

Brienne nodded, relief flooding through her. It was over. It was over, and she apparently hadn’t made a fool of herself. She felt herself smiling as she followed Jaime out of the indoor field.

“How’d you get so good at that?” he murmured.

“At what—interviews?” She made a face. “I’m really not.”

“You are. You should do more of them.”

“Are you kidding? I don’t even remember what I said, I think I blacked out.”

“One of these days I’ll get you to take a compliment. Look—” he fished his phone out of his pocket and powered it back on as they stepped into the locker room “—I’ve got a flight to catch, but can we exchange numbers before I go?”

“But we don’t know each other anymore.”

“We could, though,” he said quietly. “It’s not too late.”

It hit her then, how much she’d missed him. She’d missed his sly grins and his serious brow, his sharp wit and the way he could send her heart racing with only a glance. Maybe after all this time it was better to have him in her life in whatever small way she could, than to not have him in it at all.

Jaime’s phone began to buzz as he handed it to her. The name Varys briefly flashed across the screen before he rejected the call.

“Asshole, how many times do I need to say no,” Jaime muttered to himself. Noticing Brienne’s confusion he shrugged, elaborating, “He works for my father.”

Brienne remembered how fraught Jaime’s relationship with his father had been back in high school. From his tone, it seemed things had not improved in the years since.

“Every time I get injured, it’s Varys’ job to try to convince me my career is over. That I should be sensible and give up soccer in order to finally do something decent with my life.” Jaime rolled his eyes. “As if my father knows the first thing about decency.”

Brienne couldn’t contain her shock. “But…that’s absurd! You’re one of the top footballers in the country, the most talented striker in a generation—how can he not appreciate how much success you’ve had?”

“Because he sees no merit in sports. He’s made a career of getting crooked politicians out of trouble, all so he can advance his own despicable political agenda. As far as he’s concerned, his son is nothing more than a frivolous celebrity who plays a pointless little game.”

Jaime scowled and pressed his phone into her hands. Brienne added herself as a contact and passed it back. His thumbs flew over the screen, quickly typing something out, and after a moment she heard her own phone chirp from where she’d left it in her cubby.

“Sent you a text, so you’ll have my number now, too.” His brow had softened, watching her intently. “Don’t be a stranger, okay?” 

Before she could read too much into Jaime’s expression he was leaving, crossing paths with Margaery as she burst into the locker room with another flurry of compliments.

Later, at lunch, Brienne waited for Margaery to get up to use the restroom before she opened Jaime’s message and saved his number to her phone. He had been a distant, cherished memory for so long it felt surreal to see his name sitting there in her contacts, suddenly—viscerally—real again.

There was no point in pretending anymore, so when she climbed into bed that night she did the thing she hadn’t allowed herself to do in all these years—she pulled up her phone’s browser, opened a new window, and searched his name.

Unsurprisingly, the most recent articles were all speculation about his injury. The videos accompanying them were hard to watch—Jaime sprawled on the grass, clutching his leg, his expression a rictus of pain. Chest aching, Brienne clicked away.

She read about his latest contract extension with his club in King’s Landing, she swiped through pictures of him on red carpets, photoshoots for his sponsorship deals, grainy paparazzi snaps of an apparent argument with his sister on the day she married Robert Baratheon. Brienne was quick to scroll past that one. She tried not to linger over the many gossip sites breathlessly speculating over whether he was linked to this model or that actress, though she noticed there never seemed to be much evidence backing up the claims.    

Finally, she pulled up his social media. His profile felt more generic than Oberyn’s—with several million followers, she realized it was unlikely Jaime even ran his own account. There was nothing personal to glean from his feed, populated only with match photos, sponsorship deals, and the latest news about his charity work.

Somewhere between embarrassed and disgusted with herself, she finally exited out of the app and threw her phone to the opposite side of the bed. What had she been thinking? For ten years she’d managed to keep whatever she felt for him safely locked away in some hidden corner, a hopeless little flame flickering in the back of her mind, so faint she dared not disturb it lest it flare back to life and burn her to ashes.

Whatever it was they’d shared all those years ago, she’d always hesitated to call it love. She spent years trying to blame the whole thing on overactive teenage hormones, thinking once she grew up a little more surely she’d meet someone new and discover what she’d felt for Jaime paled in comparison to real love—only…she never had.

So maybe it had been love.

She didn’t know what to do with that.

Chapter Text

Jaime Lannister: remember that time you called me the most talented striker in a generation

Brienne Tarth: Hmm no can’t recall

Brienne Tarth: Talented at fishing for compliments maybe

Jaime Lannister: guess i must have dreamed it then

Brienne Tarth: Literally every sports outlet has said it, it’s not exactly a unique sentiment

Jaime Lannister: i’m pretty sure you said it too

Brienne Tarth: You misheard, I said it takes a certain talent to manage staying upright long enough to kick the ball, what with all that ego you’re carrying around

Alone in his apartment, Jaime grinned. He knew there was no bite to Brienne’s words, could picture her trying to hold back a smile of her own. 

Jaime Lannister: i’ll have you know that took many years of practice. it’s all about balance

Brienne Tarth: I don’t doubt it

Brienne Tarth: Got to go now, flight’s taking off…see you at the studio tomorrow afternoon

Jaime Lannister: safe travels Tarth

Jaime watched as three dots popped up, indicating she was typing another message, but they quickly disappeared. He sighed, swiping over to the unread texts he’d been ignoring in favor of chatting with Brienne.

Pia, his publicist, had relayed a handful of reminders from Margaery Tyrell confirming the call time at the studio downtown. He sent a quick thumbs up in response. Next were a few from his assistant, Peck, reminding him that Ilyn would be by at six thirty the next morning for a training session. He deleted an entire thread of texts from Varys without opening them, and after another moment of staring at Brienne’s name tossed his phone onto the coffee table with a sigh. 

The Baelish interview had aired in prime time the week before, and the public’s response had been nothing short of phenomenal. Margaery was now fielding requests from seemingly every station and saying things like “all over social media” and “great chemistry” while asking if he’d be up to joining Brienne for a few more strategically-chosen interviews.

The answer was easy.

When Pia had first floated Margaery’s invitation for the Baelish interview past him, he’d jumped at the chance. He could already hear the weary sigh his therapist would let out in their next session—Dr. Meribald would want to unpack why Jaime had been so eager for the chance to see Brienne Tarth again—but Jaime decided it was best not to think about it too hard.

The trip to Storm’s End had energized him in a way he hadn’t felt since before the injury—in a way he hadn’t felt in years, if he was being honest.

Though it had taken him a long time to finally realize it, Jaime had been in a dark place for a number of years after leaving Bitterbridge. Even as the whirlwind of his career took off—he’d signed with a club before the end of his freshman year of college, was called up to the National Team not long after and played in his first World Cup all before turning twenty—he was moving through it all without actually feeling any of it.

For all his hopes of starting fresh in King’s Landing, the Aerys shit had followed him. He didn’t blame Baelish for digging it up—if it hadn’t been him, someone else would’ve found out about it, eventually. He’d been stupid to think he could’ve ever escaped it; the press loved a bad guy.

His agent thought it would be better if he played into it. Jaime just hadn’t anticipated how depressing that kind of life would be.

So when Cersei showed up on his doorstep one night, he let her in. She was familiar, and she was terrible, and he could almost feel something again when they were together. He thought it could be enough.

In any case, his twin had always been very good at telling him what he wanted to hear. There were even times he almost believed her. There was an emptiness to their affair now that hadn’t been there before, but he was glad for it. Emptiness was easy. It felt honest. He could put his thoughts aside and lose himself in the feel of her skin pressed against his. It was the same reason he spent hours training every day—everyone thought it was because he wanted to be the best, but the long hours he spent on the field were one of the only ways he knew how to make his mind go quiet. Like with Cersei, he could just let his body take over and forget the rest. For a long time, Jaime thought he’d discovered a clever trick—nothing could touch him when he went away inside.

Maybe Cersei really had loved him, in her own way, in as much as someone can love a person they never bothered to understand. She was his twin, the person who should’ve have known him better than anyone—but she never had, had she? Maybe he’d never known her, either. In the end, it didn't matter—they’d each needed something the other had never known how to give.

That end finally came four years ago, when Cersei turned up at his apartment and waited until he was inside her to break the news—she was pregnant. She told him it was Robert’s, she said she’d done the math, and only then did Jaime realize he didn’t trust her enough to know whether or not she was telling the truth. It jolted him, like he’d been shaken awake from a years-long trance, and he knew he couldn’t live like that anymore. So he ended things once and for all and spent the next eight horrible months sick with a fear he wouldn’t give voice to, only able to breathe a sigh of relief when Tyrion sent him a copy of the birth announcement—the infant’s head was dusted with the straight, jet black hair of a Baratheon.

The therapy came after that.

Jaime sometimes liked to entertain himself by imagining what Tywin Lannister would say if he knew his son had been spending fifty minutes a week talking about his feelings while spilling enough secrets to forever taint the family name. Picturing the look on his father's face was enough to keep Jaime going back, week after week.

Lately, his sessions with Dr. Meribald had been dealing with what shape his life might take if he wasn’t able to come back from the injury. Jaime could see his future already before him—trying to recapture a skill that would never come back while finishing out his contract with the Knights, before eventually being traded around whichever of the smaller teams hoped to score a discount on a big name, while all the commentators made sure to remind everyone how good he used to be, how tragic and untimely his downfall had been. Jaime was trying not to think about how depressing that future sounded.

But now Brienne Tarth was back in his life. Even if they only saw each other when surrounded by camera crews, it almost felt like they were friends again. He knew he shouldn't get ahead of himself, but gods, he hadn’t realized how much he’d missed her.

She’d been a thought in the back of his mind for so long, an unanswered question that had left him adrift for longer than he cared to admit. Seeing her again felt like he’d found something he hadn’t known he was missing. Maybe she didn’t remember him as fondly as Jaime remembered her, but he wanted to know her again, if she’d let him.

Ilyn had finished with him by eight thirty the following morning, and by nine o’clock Jaime was showered and standing in a lobby across town, fiddling with his cell phone, trying his best to stay incognito with a beaten-up baseball cap shoved onto his head and his hair tied back in a knot. The man at the front desk knew who he was though, occasionally sending furtive glances towards where he was loitering near the elevators.

Jaime Lannister: got any big plans for the day?

Jaime hit send as the elevator dinged its arrival. He stayed put, pulling down the worn rim of his hat even more as the doors opened and closed again. Her response came quickly.

Brienne Tarth: No, I want to make sure I’m prepared for this afternoon

Jaime Lannister: we don’t need to be at the studio for another 5 hours how much preparation do you need?

Jaime Lannister: don’t overthink it

Brienne Tarth: I have some notes I want to go over again, statistics I should memorize

The next elevator arrived, and with it a group of tourists. Jaime thought he picked up a few words of Dothraki as they walked past him, a mother and father poring over a large map of King’s Landing as their sullen teenagers trailed behind, blinking sleepily in the artificial light of the lobby.

This time, Jaime got into the elevator before the doors closed.

Jaime Lannister: that sounds boring, come hang out with me instead

Brienne still hadn’t replied by the time he stepped out onto the seventeenth floor. Impatient, he began making his way down the long, carpeted hallway, and pulled up her contact to call instead. She answered after four rings.

“Jaime?”

“Come on, I’m much more fun than statistics,” he replied.

There was an intimacy to being able to hear Brienne’s breath over the line, the sound of her exasperated huff of air in his ear. He hoped she was blushing.

“Surely there are better things you could be doing with your time right now,” she said.

“Lucky for you, the schedule of a crippled athlete is pretty wide open.”

“Crippled.” She tsked. “That’s a bit dramatic. You told me your trainer said you were making solid progress.”

He ignored that. “You haven’t answered my question.” 

Brienne went quiet on the other end. She was probably worrying her bottom lip the way she used to, trying to think up some other excuse.

Jaime came to a stop at a door at the end of the hallway and rapped his knuckles a few times against it.

“Hold on, someone’s knocking,” Brienne said.

He couldn’t help the smirk that spread across his lips when the door opened and her startled blue eyes found his.

“How did you…” She glanced over his shoulder, as if she’d find the answer hiding behind him in the hallway.

Jaime lowered his phone from his ear and ended their call. “Turns out the guy working the front desk this morning is a fan.”

“So he just gave out a guest’s room number because you’re famous?” Brienne’s pale eyebrows twitched closer together as she frowned. “They’re not supposed to do that.”

“There are a lot of things you can get through some well-placed eyelash batting,” he replied, winking. “You should try it sometime.”

She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, I’ll get right on that.”

Jaime leaned an arm against the doorframe and tilted his head, trying to find a way past her defenses, but he wasn’t sure he’d ever known how.

“Spend the day with me, Brienne,” he said, voice low. “I dare you.”

The slight hitch in her breath told him she hadn’t forgotten.

“I—” She looked down at her clothes; dressed casually in black leggings and a sweatshirt, she looked as if she’d recently taken a shower—her pale blonde hair was still slightly damp where she’d tucked behind her ears. “At least give me a few minutes to change.”

Jaime shook his head. “No, don’t. This is fine for what I have planned.”

Was that a blush creeping over her cheeks?

“‘Planned’? I’m almost afraid to ask.”

“What, don’t you trust me?”

Brienne narrowed her eyes. “It’s been a while.”

He smiled. He’d missed this.

“I think you can handle it.”

Autumn was still deciding whether or not to descend over King’s Landing; cool mornings were still giving way to warm afternoons, and the leaves were only just beginning to change color, small bursts of yellow and orange spreading to more trees with each day. The miniature golf course Jaime had brought her to was situated on a pier jutting out over the Blackwater Rush, where the breeze was comfortably warm and the midmorning sun was shimmering brightly off the surface of the wide river.

“Has your trainer cleared this?” Brienne sounded skeptical, watching with an eyebrow raised as Jaime plucked a bright pink golf ball from the basket on the counter. The teenager working inside the little wooden welcome hut yawned—they’d arrived as he was still setting up for the day—and handed Brienne a scorecard. The tiny golf pencil looked comically small in her large hands.

“Has my trainer cleared me to putt a golf ball through a miniature windmill?” Jaime stifled a laugh and moved instead to the row of clubs leaning against the side of the hut, selecting the longest putter he could find and handing it to her. It was still a little too short. “I don’t think Ilyn will mind.”

In fact, he’d probably be thrilled. Now that Jaime was on the other side of the worst parts of his physical therapy, Ilyn had already signed off on far more than a round of mini golf. But Jaime was reluctant to push as hard as his trainer wanted him to, the disaster of trying to rush his recovery too quickly the first time around still fresh in his mind.

“He’s been trying to get me back in cleats for weeks,” he admitted.

Brienne was taking her place at the first hole and lifted her head, brow furrowed. “Why haven’t you?”

Jaime looked away. “What if I never get it back?”

He watched a barge sail slowly past the pier. He could feel Brienne’s eyes on the side of his face, heavy as a physical touch.

“You might not,” she said gently. “But only a coward wouldn’t try.”

Having stunned him into silence, she moved to line up her shot and gave the ball a confident tap with her putter. It bounced off a fiberglass obstacle, glided across the plastic grass and plopped into the cup for a hole-in-one.

Brienne was holding back a grin when she turned around to face him, but her eyes were sparkling with triumph. His heart beat a little faster.

“Your turn,” she said, stepping aside as she marked down her score.

“I have a feeling the rest of this game is going to be tough on my ego.” But he was grinning, not caring in the slightest if she put him to shame at every hole.

As the game wore on, Jaime found himself enjoying the way she scoped out each new obstacle as they moved through the course, the concentration she would slip into as she positioned herself for the best shot. It gave him time to watch her, without her noticing.

If he had thought her fit back in high school, she was nothing short of peak physical prowess now. Even though goalkeepers didn’t put in as many miles on the field as their teammates during matches, they still trained just as hard. He could see it in the shape of her legs under the tight fabric of her leggings, in the way her sweatshirt pulled across her broad shoulders as she took her shots. Jaime had spent many a night lamenting the long sleeves of her goalkeeper jerseys, longing to see her arms; he’d have to make do now with only the stretch of forearm she’d exposed by pushing up her sleeves, admiring the way they flexed each time she positioned her hands on the putter.

When he started closing in on her score she started asking him questions, in what he jokingly pointed out was a blatant attempt to distract him from the competition. And he answered happily, their conversation flowing easily, the decade between them falling away as if no time had passed at all—she was as stubborn as she’d ever been, as easy to tease and quick to blush as he remembered.

“How’s your family?” They’d made it to the eleventh hole before she broached the topic, sounding hesitant. “What are your brother and sister up to?”

“Cersei, she’s…” he waved his hand vaguely. “We don’t speak very often.”

She frowned a little, sympathetic. Jaime kept talking, wanting to move past it. “But Tyrion—he’s living over in Lannisport now and he’s a dad, if you can believe it. Two kids already and another on the way.”

Talking about his brother was sturdier ground. He told her about Tyrion’s wife, Tysha, how Tywin had threatened to write him out of the will for running off and eloping when they were only nineteen, how even Jaime thought they were foolish for getting married so young, but he’d been wrong—even two and a half kids later they were still the most blissfully in love couple Jaime had ever seen.

“That’s wonderful,” Brienne said. “You must be so happy for him.”

Jaime nodded, strangely emotional. Suddenly wanting to change the subject, he cleared his throat and asked, “What about your dad? You said he moved to Tarth?”

She smiled, telling Jaime about the island that bore their family name, how much better his new job was, how many good memories her late uncle’s house held. They made it through all eighteen holes—she won, of course—and took a seat at one of the wooden picnic benches beside the little snack shop, a shared order of fries between them as he asked her about Storm’s End, about the team, about how she’d liked living in Oldtown and Braavos earlier in her career.

It was a slight thing, but he noticed how she tensed when talking about Oldtown and skipped over mentioning the attack completely. He wanted to hear about it, but wouldn’t press for details when it was clear she didn’t want to share any. He also wouldn’t tell her how he’d gone half-mad when the story of it broke, refreshing social media for updates every few minutes, reaching out to contacts he had in Oldtown for any news of her condition. Tyrion had called it “borderline stalkerish” and begged him to “get a grip,” but he didn’t stop checking until he received word she was going to be okay.   

The morning slowly slipped away while they spoke, and before long their afternoon call time was almost upon them. She sounded regretful when she said she needed to stop back at the hotel, wanting to change clothes and freshen up before heading to the studio.    

His called his driver to come back to get them and they made their way back to the entrance. The pier had grown busier in the hours they’d spent there, and Jaime heard a telltale gasp as they approached the welcome hut again, watched as a girl tugged on her boyfriend’s arm in excitement.

“Oh my gods, it’s them!” the girl was squealing.

Her boyfriend’s eyes went wide and his hand immediately reached for his phone.

“Oh, dude! Can we get a picture?”

Jaime nodded, shifting into autopilot as they each put an arm around him and the guy held out his phone, trying to find a good angle for the photo.

“I can take it,” Brienne offered.

“You’re not going to be in the picture?” The girl sounded disappointed.

Brienne blushed a little. It was obvious she wasn’t used to being recognized, even with all her years on the national team. She leaned in awkwardly next to the girl. Jaime caught a glimpse of her cautious smile in the phone’s camera before the shutter sounded.

“And can you sign our scorecard?” The girl held it out to them. Jaime took it first, quickly scribbling his name with the dull golf pencil before passing it to Brienne.

“Thank you so much,” the girl gushed as Brienne added her autograph. “We’re huge fans!”

“Appreciate it, thanks.” Jaime gave the couple a tight smile, gently taking Brienne’s arm to guide her the rest of the way to the waiting car. 

“King-slay-er! King-slay-er!” the boyfriend chanted at their retreating backs.

“Sorry about that,” Jaime muttered, climbing into the back seat after Brienne. He glanced at her face as the driver pulled away from the curb, expecting to see discomfort, but was met with something that looked more like concern.

“Does it bother you?” she asked quietly. “That they still call you that?”

He sighed, scrubbing a hand over his jaw. “That sounds like something my therapist would ask.”

If Brienne was surprised to hear he was in therapy, she gave no indication.

“Is that a good thing, or a bad thing?”

“It’s not a bad thing.”

He glanced over to her again. Her eyes were soft.

“So does it? Bother you?”

Jaime shrugged. “I try not to think about it anymore.”

Kingslayer was a role he’d reluctantly learned to play, and Jaime Lannister was the part he’d carved out to keep for himself. The lines between the two had blurred for a while, but more often than not he felt like he knew and liked who Jaime was now. And being around Brienne again made him feel so much more like that man he wanted to be.

“They don’t know you,” she murmured. 

Something crackled in the air between them and he almost reached for her then, pressing his fingertips against the top of his thighs to quell the impulse. Even with the chasm of ten years between them she seemed to understand him just as well as she ever did, and it was tempting to just give in to it, to let himself believe she’d still look at him that way after he told her the whole sordid truth of who he really was.

“Thank you,” Brienne spoke again, pulling him away from those thoughts.

“For what?”

“For this—” she gestured at the air “—for this morning, for convincing me I needed a distraction. You were right."

“I usually am,” he lied.

She rolled her eyes; he grinned.

The moment passed.

Chapter Text

Crisp autumn sunlight cut across the floor where Brienne knelt, illuminating the piles of papers she’d dumped onto the carpet of her father’s guest room. He’d been enthusiastically adding to this collection since her childhood, a mixture of old photographs and newspaper clippings, the story of her soccer career lovingly condensed into a nondescript plastic storage bin. There were quite a few new additions to the box now that she’d become one of the faces of pay equity in women’s soccer, but today she was searching for much older memories.

Brienne plucked her senior soccer portrait out of the pile. The freckled face of her seventeen-year-old self stared back at her, posed in her uniform and goalkeeper’s gloves, a soccer ball under one arm and a tentative smile on her lips. She remembered that girl. That girl would never have imagined the future Brienne was now living.

The trip down memory lane wasn't exactly voluntary. She and Jaime were headed back to Bitterbridge to film a feature story for Westeros in Focus, and the producers had requested a few photos from their high school days to weave into the broadcast. A weekly news magazine program, the show was prestigious, its correspondents some of the biggest names in Westerosi journalism. The interview would be longer and more in-depth than any of the others she and Jaime had given thus far, detailing not only the equal pay fight, but delving into their shared history on their high soccer team as well—“Back where it all started,” one of the producers had explained cheerfully.

Setting the portrait aside, another photo caught her eye. Jaime’s striking green eyes were peering out from between two newspaper clippings and she moved them aside, revealing the rest of their teammates around him—their team photo. The sight of those boys made her wistful in a way she hadn’t been anticipating. She’d seen Renly and Loras a few months ago at Margaery’s nameday party, but the last time she'd seen the rest of them had been the only other time she'd been back to Bitterbridge since graduation, at their five-year high school reunion. Her old teammates had been happy as ever to see her, and she them…but of course there had been one person not in attendance that night. After, she realized how foolish she’d been to think he’d take time out of a World Cup training year to come to a silly high school reunion. At the time, she’d tried to stifle her disappointment by getting drunk enough to forget why she hated Hyle Hunt so much.

She sought out his face in the team photo next, remembering his cleft chin and crooked smile as she let him follow her back to her hotel room that night, how by the time they were finished she’d sobered up enough to understand why a woman might choose to fake an orgasm.

Cringing at the memory, she pushed the picture away to look through some of the articles instead. She was halfway through a recounting of their championship win when her father poked his head into the room.

“Brienne? I think your visitor’s arrived.”

Her eyes flew to her watch. “Crap, I got distracted.”

“Take your time, I’ll see if she’d like something to drink.”

She thanked him and quickly gathered up the papers, stuffing them back into the box they’d come from, save for the smaller pile she'd set aside to scan in and email to the producers later.

When Margaery had rung her the night before, Brienne assumed she wanted to discuss next week’s interview. But she’d been surprised to learn Margaery was in fact calling on behalf of her grandmother, who happened to be vacationing on Tarth that very week and had hoped to meet Brienne while they were both there.

Brienne thought it a bit odd—she couldn’t imagine why Margaery and Loras’ grandmother would want to meet her, chalking it up to some sort of old fashioned etiquette about not snubbing the friends of your grandchildren, or...something. Which was silly, because Brienne wouldn’t have even known she was on the island if Margaery hadn’t called, but there was no use in pointing that out. She’d heard enough stories over the years about the Tyrell matriarch’s indomitable personality to know better than to try to get out of meeting her.

Olenna Tyrell was waiting in the living room, sipping a cup of tea, her small frame perched on the edge of Selwyn’s favorite armchair in what was probably an attempt to avoid being swallowed whole by the seat’s deep cushion. Her face lit up as Brienne entered the room, and she hastened to set her teacup aside to offer one of her age-spotted hands to shake.

“Forgive me for not standing, dear, I’m afraid it’s a whole production when you get to be my age,” she said in greeting.

Brienne took her hand, surprised at the strength in the older woman’s handshake. “It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Tyrell.”

“Goodness, you are something, aren’t you?” Olenna said, an appreciative smile on her face as she gazed up at Brienne.

Brienne blushed at the compliment, taking a seat on the couch opposite.

“I have to apologize, I’m not sure what Margaery told you, but my father’s the local here, not me. I’m happy to show you around the area, but I’m afraid I won’t make a very good tour guide.”

Olenna tutted, shaking her head. “My dear girl, I know how precious your time is, do you really think I’ve intruded on it because I want a tour of the island?”

“Oh, you’re not intruding…” 

“Of course I am, though I promise I’ll try to make it quick. Now—” she arched one white eyebrow, a sly glint to her eye “—did any of my grandchildren ever tell you I used to play soccer? We didn’t have a league back then, obviously—we barely even had teams—no, it wasn’t considered appropriate for girls to play sports, gods forbid we do something unladylike.”

Olenna pulled an old black and white photograph out of her purse and placed it on the coffee table between them. Brienne’s mouth dropped open as she leaned forward for a closer look. Pictured were two rows of women posing with their arms crossed, all in matching blouses and ludicrously puffy shorts, their curled hair pinned carefully about their heads.

“Is this you?” Brienne asked, amazed.

“Front row center, I was our captain.” Olenna confirmed, tapping a finger to the photo. “We were undefeated.”

“This is incredible! I had no idea.”

“There was no hope of playing professionally back then—we had teams at the women’s colleges, but it was considered a lark more than anything. Just something you did to pass the time until a husband came along. Things have come a long way since my day, though there’s still so much to do, as you well know. For instance, it’s come to my attention that King’s Landing doesn’t have a women’s soccer team. Rather appalling, don’t you think? Our nation’s largest city, and yet there’s no women’s team? Outrageous.”

“I agree,” Brienne said. “It’s one of the many inequities we’ve been trying to highlight—”

“I realize I'm a very old woman, but I’m also very wealthy—I imagine my grandchildren neglected to tell you that, as well?” Olenna interrupted. “Oh I know, it’s all rather crass to discuss money, but I do have quite a lot of it. My late husband left me well taken care of—gods rest his soul, but he’d hardly done anything to earn it, most of it had been his inheritance in the first place and frankly it was a miracle he was able to hang on to so much of it given the wits that man was born to. But I’ve managed to make some clever investments over the years, and I don’t mind telling you that I’m quite comfortable, now. And recently I’ve been considering another investment. Something to leave a legacy—something where I could make a difference, and maybe have a bit of fun along the way.” 

Brienne was lost. “That’s lovely. Though I’m not sure what this has to do with me?”

“Well, apparently the women’s soccer league is very interested in permitting an expansion team to form in King’s Landing for the upcoming season. I trust you understand my meaning?”

Of course Brienne understood; expansion teams were how new teams were added to the league, a process which generally involved a great deal of money and influence. Both of which Olenna Tyrell apparently had in spades. 

“As it turns out, I happen to rather like the idea of owning a women’s soccer team. I think it would be an excellent investment.”

Brienne opened her mouth to speak, but had no idea what to say. Olenna merely smiled, barreling on.

“Now, it won’t just be me in charge, I’ve brought quite a few other investors to the table—all of them women, by the way, which was apparently unheard of in the sporting world until now. And all of our athletes will be paid, and paid well. Bonuses, a percentage of ticket shares, everything you deserve. A press release with all the details will hit the wires tomorrow morning.”

It was incredible news, and not just because expanding the league was important for the future of women’s soccer in Westeros. Brienne could feel her excitement growing at what such a team would mean for the sport, a smile to match Olenna’s own spreading over her face.

“I think that’s wonderful, a new team will create so many more opportunities for female players.” Brienne paused—she still didn’t understand why Olenna had felt compelled to come tell her all of this, unless— “Though I’m afraid I’m not really in a position with my career to be able to offer any…monetary investment.”

“Oh of course not, dear. Perhaps someday, but you're still young, you have quite a few playing years ahead of you.” Olenna smiled knowingly. “Which is why I’d like to ask you to come play for us.” 

“You…what?”

“Now I know you’re still under contract with Stormlands, and we obviously don’t have any players to trade with at this stage, but rest assured we have the financials in place to make it worth their while. Only if you’re amenable to the move, that is.” 

Brienne’s head spun as she tried to process Olenna’s proposal. “Well—I hadn’t thought—I mean, Storm’s End is close to my dad,” she said weakly.

“The flight from King’s Landing to Tarth is quite short,” Olenna reassured her. “And isn’t that boyfriend of yours in King’s Landing? Our team will be sharing facilities with his for the first year or two, actually, while we work on building space of our own. I know, I know, you kids and your modern relationships, phone calls and video chatting and—what do they call it? Sexting?—distance is nothing to you younger generations, but surely you’d prefer to live in the same city, given the chance?”

Brienne blushed. “Mrs. Tyrell you’re mistaken, I don’t have a boyfriend.”

“Is that so?” Olenna seemed surprised. “From the way that Lannister boy looks at you in those interviews, I’d have thought you’d hung the moon.”

“Oh, he’s not—” Brienne shook her head, blush worsening “—he doesn’t look at me any special way. Jaime Lannister is just an old friend. It’s not like that.”

Olenna raised one shrewd eyebrow, but said nothing more.

“This is…forgive me, I wasn’t expecting anything like this when Margaery said you’d like to meet,” Brienne said, trying not to sound flustered. “I’m flattered by your offer, truly, but I’ll have to give it some thought before I can make a decision. I hope you understand.”

“That’s all I ask, dear.” Olenna placed a business card on the table and returned the photo to her purse. “Get in touch when you’re ready to chat, and we can discuss some of the finer details. I’ve taken up quite enough of your time today as it is.”

Still stunned, Brienne moved to help Olenna up from the armchair but the older woman waved her away, slowly levering herself to her feet. Once standing, she was barely taller than Brienne’s elbow.

“You really are incredible, I hope you know that,” Olenna said, emphatic, tilting her head back to beam up at her again. “Not just as an athlete, but everything you’re doing for the sport, putting yourself out there in the press every day—the things women have to do to be taken seriously in this world! My Margaery’s done nothing but sing your praises since this whole endeavor began, and I knew you were exactly the kind of woman my team needs.”

Brienne merely blushed some more as they walked to the door, unused to such effusive praise. “That’s very kind of you to say.”

A sleek black car was waiting in the driveway; the driver climbed out to open the back door when he saw Olenna heading his way. Brienne stared at the business card in her hand as they drove away, trying to wrap her head around what had just happened.

The wooden staircase in the entryway creaked as Selwyn Tarth climbed down from the second floor. “Well, she seemed nice.”

“She’s forming a new team,” Brienne murmured, aware that her father had probably overheard everything. “She asked me to play for them. In King’s Landing.”

“Sounds like a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, from where I’m standing,” he replied.

“It’s farther away than Storm’s End.”

“Not that much farther.”

“It could be a huge risk, taking a chance on an unknown like that. It will probably take years for the team to even be competitive.”

Selwyn placed one large hand on her shoulder, eyes twinkling.

“How many chances do you get to come in at the ground level of something like this, to put your mark on a new club that stands for everything you’re already fighting for?”

Something between excitement and fear swooped inside her stomach at the idea.

“How about I make us some lunch, and if you want to talk it over with me, you can, and if not, that’s fine, too,” he offered.

Brienne sighed, relieved. She definitely wasn’t ready to make any decisions yet, but just knowing her father would support her either way was enough for the moment. Anyway, she had the Bitterbridge interview to get through first—her future would have to wait until she made it through a trip into her past.

“How does it feel to be back here?”

Melisandre addressed the question to them both, but Brienne felt Jaime’s knowing smile and knew he was waiting for her to answer first. Having already recorded their more formal, sit-down interviews that morning, this part of the day was just to capture b-roll—Melisandre leading them in light conversation as they strolled along the sidelines of Bitterbridge High’s soccer field with the newly-ranked girl’s team scrimmaging in the background.

Bitterbridge hadn’t undergone any particularly remarkable transformation in the years since Brienne had last visited, though there were small changes here and there. A frozen yogurt shop by her old house, a neighborhood of McMansions along the Mander, a new hotel out by the Roseroad. Things she had long-tried to move past still lurked around every corner, and she was trying very hard not to think about the fact that a not inconsiderable number of them happened to involve the man standing next to her. But she wasn’t going to tell Melisandre that. 

“A lot of memories,” Brienne said, succinct.

Melisandre tilted her head thoughtfully, hair the color of dark wine spilling over one shoulder. “Good ones, or bad ones?”

Once, her instinct would have been to say bad, but her eyes flicked to Jaime’s green ones and she felt her lips twitching, trying to fight the way just the sight of him made her want to smile. 

“The good ones outweigh the bad.”

He wouldn’t know she was thinking of him as she said it, but his eyes softened at her answer.

“You seem to agree, Jaime?” Melisandre asked, picking up on the look they'd shared.

“I’m not sure anybody has great memories of high school,” he joked. “But yes, it had its moments.”

Brienne wanted to know which moments. Did he think of the few weeks they’d spent sneaking around together with fondness? Did he think of them at all? Or was their time together just a brief footnote in his memories?

Better if she didn’t know.

“Many of them on this field, in fact,” he added with wink.

Melisandre nodded, her face a placid mask of journalistic interest. She was famous for her ability to put her interview subjects at ease, expertly slipping past their defenses before they’d even realized it had happened, often drawing raw, tearful answers out of people who probably weren’t thrilled to have them broadcasted for the entire country to see. Brienne thought she’d emerged from the that morning’s interview unscathed, but still feared what truths might spill out should she let her guard down—which was growing ever-more likely the longer she spent within arm’s reach of Jaime.

She was doing a pretty good job of keeping it together around him, if she did say so herself. Sure, sometimes she felt so warmed by his smile that she had to look away to stop her heart from bursting—and he’d done a great deal of smiling so far that day, not to mention saying all the right things and smelling distractingly good, and—okay, yes, maybe being back in Bitterbridge was dredging up quite a few more feelings than she’d been prepared for, but she wasn’t going to let any of that affect her. Being in love with Jaime and knowing there was nothing she could do about it was muscle memory by now; her heart didn’t need much practice to remember how to endure it.

Blessedly, Melisandre took Jaime’s opening and brought the conversation back to soccer, pointing out how gratifying it must be for Brienne to see how far the girl’s team had come.

It was gratifying. Bitterbridge had made significant investments in both the boy’s and girl’s soccer programs since she and Jaime had graduated, and they were paying off tenfold. If there had been a girl’s team of this caliber when Brienne had been at school, she never would have needed to try out for the boy’s team.

They filmed some additional b-roll with the girl's team when the scrimmage ended, shaking hands with the excited players and even joining in for a few drills. Though Jaime downplayed it, his recovery was progressing well, and even if he was more restrained than he would have been at full health he seemed wholly in his element out on the pitch; Brienne knew the feeling well enough in herself to be able to recognize it in him, too.

His demeanor changed sharply, however, once filming wrapped and the crew began packing up. He’d been joking around with her as usual when he suddenly stiffened, mouth snapping shut mid-sentence. Brienne followed his eyes to the parking lot and saw Tywin Lannister standing there like a specter, waiting.

“Fucking fantastic,” Jaime muttered, scrubbing a hand over his face. 

“I take it you didn’t tell him you’d be in town?”

“Of course not,” Jaime scowled. “Varys must have clued him in. Don’t know why he bothers—we’ve got nothing to say to each other.”

“Do you want me to come over there with you?” Brienne didn’t know what help she could possibly be, but offered nonetheless.

“Gods, no—save yourself.” Off her concerned look, he slanted her a grin. “I promise I’ll make it out alive, I always do. Besides, wouldn’t want to miss dinner with Coach.”

She watched as Jaime sauntered over to his inscrutable father. She was too far away to hear what they were saying, but both men seemed clipped and formal. Tywin gestured to his car and Jaime rolled his eyes, climbing into the passenger seat at his father’s behest. It wasn’t her place and she knew Jaime could hold his own, but Brienne was still reluctant to leave, waiting to get into her rental car until Tywin and Jaime had driven away. There were still a few hours to kill before they were due at Coach Goodwin’s house for dinner, and she hoped Jaime wouldn’t have to spend all of them fending off his father’s criticism.

For her part, Brienne had intended to hole herself up in the hotel gym for the rest of the afternoon but quickly found she was too restless, her mind swirling with pent-up emotions from being back in Bitterbridge and indecision over Olenna’s proposition. Alone now, it all came rushing in—the gym felt too small, the lights too bright, her reflection in the mirrors too pronounced—she headed outside for a run, instead.

Brienne hadn’t set out with a destination in mind, but it didn’t take long before she found herself following a once-familiar route. Federal land was harder to redevelop, and the old post office parking lot still stood vacant after all this time. The gap in the fence was right where it had always been, and though whatever hint of a path beyond it was long overgrown, her feet still knew the way.   

The last time she’d been able to come here had been her eighteenth nameday, with Jaime. Now the trees swayed bright red and orange instead of green and the water was far too cold to even contemplate jumping in at this time of year, but the swimming hole was otherwise exactly as she remembered. Brushing some fallen leaves aside, Brienne found the spot where her brother had etched their names into the stone. She’d been so caught up in keeping her memories of Jaime at bay, she hadn’t even had time to think about the way Galladon’s shadow still lingered around every corner. It had been easier to hold her brother’s memory tight when she still called Bitterbridge home, but being away for so long only made her realize how much of him had slipped away over the years.

“Hey, Gal,” she whispered, throat tight. “It’s been a while.”

The rock was cool against her back as she stretched out along it, knees bent as she stared up at the overcast sky, missing her brother so much she could hardly breathe. He’d always been the clever one, able to see the clear answer to every predicament before she’d even managed to find her footing. She wished she could ask his advice about Olenna and the King’s Landing team—but she already knew what he’d say, didn’t she? Gal had never been afraid of the unknown, always ready to take the leap. 

In lieu of bravery, Brienne had pragmatism. She had lists and well-reasoned arguments. The few friends she’d discussed it with had been nothing but supportive—Margaery had been the first to know, calling not long after her grandmother left, apologizing for keeping Brienne in the dark—“It was all her idea, she made me promise not to say anything!”—which meant Sansa heard the news next, followed quickly by Arya, all three women adamant that whatever decision Brienne ended up making would be the right one. She just had to make it.

She wondered what Jaime would think. Would he find it promising? Would he think it too risky? She tried not to imagine what shape his face would take if she told him she might be moving to his city.

Bad idea—she needed to to stick to her lists. Closing her eyes, she began to mentally tick through the pros and cons.

Pro: a women-owned team was a rarity, and they’d sought her out personally. For whatever reason, they believed she would be an asset to have on their roster—she could count on their support.

Con: building a brand-new team was a huge endeavor, which meant expansion teams rarely managed to climb the rankings in their first couple of years. Working out the kinks would probably mean a lot of losing, and that had the potential to be pretty demoralizing.

Pro: win or lose, it was a chance to build a foundation for generations to come, much like what the national team was trying to do with pay equity. She could leave a legacy.

Con: but she’d be leaving behind the life she’d built in Storm’s End. Even if getting traded to another team was an expected part of being a professional athlete, having to say goodbye never got any easier.

Pro: she already had some friends in King’s Landing, so she wouldn’t be completely alone. Dacey Mormont lived there for part of the year and her other friends would always find reasons to visit, and—her heart beat a little faster to think about it—there was one particular person living there—

The crunch of leaves jolted Brienne back to reality. She flew to her feet, startled, only to find—him. Jaime. He looked just as surprised to see her as she was him, step stuttering a bit when they locked eyes, like he was deciding whether or not to turn around and leave.

“Sorry, I….” he started. “Ilyn wants me upping my mileage—I went for a run to clear my head.”

“So did I.”

“I should’ve realized you might…this was your spot, I wasn’t thinking. Did you want to be alone?”

Her chest warmed at the uncertainty in his voice.   

“No, I’m all right. It’s just—I needed fresh air.” Brienne shrugged. “Being back here, this town…it’s harder than I thought it would be.”

“I know what you mean.”

She settled back onto the rock and he took the space beside her, their faces turned towards the sky.

“How’d it go with your dad?” she asked.

Jaime huffed out a bitter laugh in response.

“That bad?”

“Same as ever. It’s a low bar.”

She turned her head towards him, unscarred cheek pressed to the rock, watching as he worked a muscle in his jaw. “Are you okay?”

He turned too, eyes finding hers. “Better now.”

His gaze felt so heavy—she didn’t understand what he could find so interesting about her face to want to look at her like that. Maybe it was the scar—she imagined it was hard not to stare at. She rubbed at her cheek.

“Does it still hurt?” he asked gently.

Brienne swallowed and shook her head, turning her face away again so he wouldn’t have to look at it.

The scent of fresh rain filling her nostrils, the sun not yet over the horizon, her sneakers pounding the cobblestones, her watch buzzing, announcing the end of another mile, seventeen seconds faster than the last. A girl’s frightened cry piercing the air.

“It was so stupid.” Her turn for bitter laughter. “It’s one thing to get injured on the field, but to go and get injured in my own time…” 

The alley, her eyes taking a moment to find them in the dark, two holding the girl down, a third laughing, reaching for his belt. Instinct taking over, running at them, startling them, the girl managing to twist free and flee.

“It wasn’t your fault.” Jaime’s voice slipped between her memories.

Pain. A fist connecting with her stomach and all three of them turning on her. Blood filling her mouth as she bit the hand grabbing at her face; his shout, full of rage, so much rage in his eyes, baring his teeth, closing them over her cheek. Her own blood filling her mouth now, the others shouting, hitting her anywhere they could reach. Sirens, somewhere far away, like she was underwater, like she was drowning, choking, unable to fight back; they were going to kill her, she was going to die, she was… 

“How could I have thought I’d be able to take on three of them?” Brienne whispered. “And she was so small, Jaime. They were going to…there was no time to wait for the police to show up. There was no choice.”

“There’s always a choice. You just picked the one that could’ve gotten you killed. When I heard what happened, I couldn’t believe…” It wasn’t said with his usual joking laughter—his eyes were sharp. Intense. She realized he was angry.

“How stupid I was?” Brienne sat up, distractedly pushing hair out of her face. “I don’t need a lecture from you on safety, thanks, I’ve had enough of them from my father—” She choked out a gasp as Jaime’s hand suddenly closed around her wrist, but his fingers were gentle, his touch grounding her.

“Hey,” he said softly. “That’s not what I was going to say. I was going to say I couldn’t believe how brave you were.”

Brienne scoffed. “I wasn’t brave, I was an idiot. I nearly wrecked my season. Coach Hightower was furious—”

“Coach Hightower can go fuck himself,” Jaime snarled. “You saved that girl.”

She shrugged. The girl—Willow, at the hospital she introduced herself as Willow—had come to see her after, her family at her side and an enormous bouquet of flowers in her arms. Seeing her there with her parents and older sister, fanned out around the hospital bed in tearful gratitude, Brienne knew she’d done the right thing.

Anyway, she’d gotten lucky. There’d been no internal bleeding, and the attackers hadn’t managed to break any bones by the time the approaching sirens scared them off. Her cuts and bruises would heal with rest. The hospital had tried to encourage surgery on her cheek—a plastic surgeon, skin grafts—but it was the middle of the season and she couldn’t afford the extra recovery time. So they stitched it up instead, and she donned a ridiculous plastic face guard for the rest of the season—the pictures of her wearing it had spawned cruel memes; that was the year Brienne learned no good ever came of reading comment sections—and she was able to finish out her time with the Beacons under her own steam.

“Part of me was relieved when they told me I was being traded to Storm’s End,” she confessed. “It was easier to put it all behind me, that way.” 

Jaime was quiet for a long moment. His hand was still around her wrist; he stared down at it, thumb slowly sweeping over her pulse point.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you,” he murmured.

“Jaime, it had been years by that point, I didn’t expect…”

“I should have reached out. I could have helped, or, I don’t know, something—”

Brienne linked her fingers with his and gave a squeeze. “I’m okay, I promise. And look—” she pulled a small cylinder out of her jacket pocket with her other hand “—pepper spray. Never go for a run without it.”

Jaime shook his head, chuckling darkly as he looked out over the water. “Gods, what is it about this place. We’re always telling our worst stories to each other, here.”

She laughed too, blinking back the tears that had inexplicably sprung to her eyes. “Call it tradition.”

That earned her a wry smile and he shifted, standing, hauling her up with him by their still-linked hands. He glanced towards the darkening sky. “Come on, let's see if we can beat the rain. I’ll complain about how out of shape I am, and you can tell me all the reasons I should be annoyed about this new offsides rule the federation’s trialing.”

Brienne laughed again, barely feeling the touch of her feet on the pavement as she kept pace with Jaime on the run back to their hotel. The rain managed to hold out until midway into their dinner with Coach Goodwin, heavy sheets of it continuing to fall steadily through the rest of the evening.

She struggled to fall asleep that night, watching the water as it trickled down her hotel window in long rivulets, turning Jaime’s words over in her mind, her heart thumping in time with the rain. He called me brave. But she wasn’t, not really. She could be brave for other people, but not when it came to her own life. Not when it came to her heart. Not when it came to him.

Chapter Text

The miserable weather had felt fitting when Jaime had blinked himself awake that morning, groggy from a bad night’s sleep, the details of a dream involving his father, sister, and a dark cave rapidly slipping away as consciousness settled in. Brienne had been there, too—he closed his eyes again, remembering how viscerally relieved he’d been to see her, carrying the only light, drawing him out of the dark.

He wasn’t sure what he’d been thinking, had clearly been a little too optimistic in hoping he could escape a visit to Bitterbridge without attracting Tywin’s notice. Hearing his father’s “you’re wasting your life” lecture straight from the horse’s mouth rather than from one of his envoys had not featured high on Jaime’s itinerary for the trip.   

“I appreciate that you’ve managed to command such an impressive salary for doing something so frivolous with your life,” Tywin had said, and Jaime couldn't help but admire his father's consummate ability to twist a compliment into a criticism. “But you’ve always known this is not a career path with longevity. The fact of the matter is, whether it’s this injury or another one, you need to start thinking about what comes next.”

“There are plenty of things I can do,” Jaime gritted out through clenched teeth. “Coaching, or commentating—”

“Jaime, you are my son—my heir—I will not stand by and watch you become some trifling television personality. And now whatever this half-baked attempt at activism is?” Tywin scoffed, barely hiding his derision. “It’s not too late to pivot to a more respectable career. Law school’s out of the picture at this point, but it may still be possible to parlay your finite celebrity status into politics, like your goodbrother did.”

Jaime’s answering scoff echoed his father’s—as if he had any interest in modeling his life after Robert Baratheon's. Of course, there already was a Lannister son who’d followed the correct path and gone into politics—one who actually had a head for that sort of thing—but even before he’d gotten married against Tywin’s wishes, their father tended to discount Tyrion.

“Father, surely you’re tired of having this conversation over and over again?”

“I’m tired of seeing you sully the legacy I’ve worked so hard to build, of watching you waste your potential on something so trivial, so crude—”

“I’m not wasting anything!” Jaime shouted, sick of his father’s judgment. “Soccer is what I’m good at. Great at, even! Do you have any idea how many people would kill to be as good as I am? How hard I’ve worked to get here—”

“And where is that?” Tywin interrupted. “The bench? You haven’t played for a year.”

He didn’t have to listen to this shit.

“Pull over, I’ll find my own way back,” Jaime spat.

When he clambered out onto the sidewalk, his father sped away without a backwards glance.

Brienne probably would’ve come to pick him up if he asked, but then he’d have to explain why he was stranded on the side of the road in the first place. He felt too foolish, nearly thirty and still unable to handle his father’s disdain. Jaime sighed, beginning the methodical process of Ilyn’s pre-run stretches—the hotel was only a couple of miles away and at least he was already dressed for it, having changed into his warm ups for the last part of the Westeros In Focus taping. Might as well.

Somehow, he ended up at Brienne’s swimming hole instead. He’d developed a habit of sneaking off to it every time he was back in Bitterbridge, pulled there by some invisible string, by a hopeful flutter beneath his ribs. He thought it was the solitude that kept drawing him back, a secret place he could escape to whenever tensions were boiling over with his family, but when he’d jogged out of the trees and found Brienne sitting out on the cliff he’d realized some part of him had been hoping to find her there all the other times, too.

The hotel phone trilled loudly beside the bed as he was getting dressed, fully awake now; it was the valet calling, letting him know his car to the airport had arrived. Peck must not have been able to change the pick up time after learning Jaime’s flight had been delayed. No matter—waiting out the delay in the first class lounge would be better than hanging around the Weirwood Inn & Suites for a few more hours. And no one at the airport would judge him for indulging in a midday drink to pass the time; alcohol wasn’t exactly part of his pre-season nutrition plan, but after that argument with his father he felt he was allowed an exception.

Word must have spread through town about his and Brienne’s presence in Bitterbridge. A small crowd of fans had braved the miserable weather and were standing huddled together under the cover of the hotel’s valet area, phones out as they hoped for a glimpse of their town’s famous former residents. He made sure to stop for a few selfies and hoped no one would be too disappointed when they realized they’d already missed Brienne—she’d left at the crack of dawn to catch her much earlier flight to the Eyrie, where she’d be taking part in the national team’s fall training camp.

Jaime’s phone buzzed with a text from Pia as his driver merged onto the Roseroad.

Pia Rivers: Teensy heads up—paps figured out you’re in Bitterbridge. They got a few pics yesterday.

Of-fucking-course. He scrubbed a hand over his face, already picturing it, a series of grainy photos of him climbing out of his father’s car, probably slamming the door like some petulant child.

Jaime Lannister: they get anything bad?

She sent a picture through next, and he nearly laughed in relief when he saw it. As expected it was grainy, shot from a distance, but Jaime wasn’t with his father nor was he angry—on the contrary, he was beaming, jogging alongside an equally radiant Brienne on their way back from the swimming hole. 

Pia Rivers: Just fueling more speculation about whether you’ll return next season. Nothing we can’t handle.

Jaime sent back a thumbs up and, after a brief internal debate, saved the picture to his phone. He considered most paparazzi to be unethical, amoral vermin, but he couldn’t deny how much he liked seeing that smile on Brienne’s face, especially after how anguished she’d looked only a little while earlier when she’d told him what had happened in Oldtown.

At least the rain was keeping the paparazzi away now—it was still coming down in buckets when his car pulled up to the terminal. Just in case, he pulled his beanie a little lower over his hair and brought the hood of his sweatshirt up for good measure in preparation for the busy airport. His driver jumped out before Jaime could open the car door for himself, dutifully holding a massive umbrella over Jaime’s head for the short walk to one of the entry doors. Jaime thanked him with a 100-dragon note slipped into a handshake before ducking inside to find the priority security line.

The first class lounge at Caswell International Airport was far from the most luxurious he’d ever been in, but at least it was a quiet escape from the chaos of the rest of the terminal. Jaime imagined the windows lining the far wall would have had light streaming through them on any other day, but the storm had blotted out the sun and the sky outside was dark as iron.   

Rain lashed at the glass as Jaime’s eyes scanned the dim lounge. His fellow travelers were mostly businessmen, tapping away at their laptops or talking into their phones, but there was also a young family with two sleeping children taking up one of the rows of seats, and a pair of older women chatting animatedly in what sounded like Tyrosh at the near end of the bar. And tucked away at the far end—his lips spread into a grin, heart beating faster—a familiar figure, a few wisps of pale blonde hair falling around her face where they’d sprung loose from her ponytail, one freckled hand absentmindedly swirling her straw as she stared into her drink.

Jaime walked the length of the bar and took the empty seat to her left. 

“Shouldn’t you be in the Eyrie by now?” he asked.

Brienne’s head snapped up, her bright blue eyes round with surprise before softening in recognition.

“My flight was delayed, thanks to this storm,” she replied.

“That makes two of us. Drowning your sorrows?”

“It’s just seltzer.”

“Smart. I, on the other hand, still need to wash away the taste of Tywin Lannister’s perennial disappointment, so promise you won’t rat me out to Ilyn when I go for something a little stronger.”

Amused, Brienne pursed her lips. “You know, I would have figured you flew private.”

“Bit ostentatious, don’t you think?” Jaime shrugged. “Besides, I don’t trust those little planes.”

“But don’t you worry about privacy? I’m sure you get recognized all the time.”

“Are you implying my disguise needs work?” he joked, tugging the hood of his sweatshirt forward a little more. “Anyway, it’s private enough here in the lounge.”

Her teeth tugged at her lower lip. “This is my first time in a first class lounge,” she confessed. “The gate agent recognized me and upgraded my seat without my asking.”

“Guess you’ll have to work on your disguise, too, now that you’re a big star and all.”

Grimacing, Brienne gave his arm a light shove. He knew she was embarrassed to be reminded of how much her fame had grown since the World Cup, which was why he loved teasing her about it.   

“So, you’re headed back to King’s Landing?” she asked, clearly hoping to change the subject.

“Lannisport, actually—I’ve been summoned for a princess tea party.” He grinned at the confused look on her face, explaining, “It’s my niece’s fourth nameday.”

Brienne couldn’t hold back her answering smile, shyly covering it with a hand over her mouth as the bartender interrupted to take Jaime’s order.

“I bet a princess tea party will be more enjoyable than this trip down memory lane was,” she said after Jaime’s whiskey arrived.

“I don’t know…” Jaime mused, taking a slow sip, feeling the slight sting of the alcohol hitting the back of his throat. “Tywin aside, this might have been my favorite trip back since graduation. It was actually nice, visiting the school again, getting to spend some time with Coach. Kind of made me wish I hadn’t skipped that ten-year reunion a couple months ago.”

Brienne wrinkled her nose. “If it was anything like the last one, I doubt either of us missed much.”

“Hang on, you actually went to the five-year? I wouldn’t have pegged you as a fan of high school reunions, given everything. Couldn’t resist the nostalgic pull of Bitterbridge High?”

“No, it’s not that, I went because…” The high points of her cheeks had turned the faintest shade of pink, and the rest of her words came out in a rush. “I thought you might’ve been there.”

Jaime tilted his head, taken by surprise. “It was a World Cup year, I couldn’t take the time off. Otherwise—”

She waved a hand to cut him off. “I know, it was just a silly thought.”

“Well I’m sure the reunion was very dull without me,” he joked, feeling rather buoyant all of a sudden. “What did you do without me there to goad you all night?”

He hadn’t expected her face to flush even deeper at that, but the skin between her freckles was rapidly turning a splotchy shade of red as she said, “No one—” his eyebrows shot up in surprise as she rushed to correct herself “—I mean—nothing! Nothing.”

“Brienne Tarth,” he drawled, voice low, “did you behave badly?”

She grimaced again, throwing a hand over her face, her voice slightly muffled by her palm. “I’m too mortified to say.”

“At least tell me it wasn’t that prick Connington?”

“Gods, no! No, not him but—well, I’d had a few drinks, and Hyle always had a nice smile—”

“Hyle Hunt?” Jaime sputtered. A vision came to him of Brienne gazing into Hunt’s dull brown eyes, leaning towards him over a bar much like the one they were sitting at now, Hunt’s hands pulling Brienne closer…Jaime’s fingers twitched into a fist and he blinked, trying to shove the image from his mind.

“I know, I know,” she groaned, sinking low in her seat. “We were both pretty drunk and it must have seemed like a good idea at the time. Believe me, it was entirely forgettable.”

The look of regret on her face was enough to distract Jaime from the sudden, intense urge to find Hunt and knock his teeth out. He chuckled. “Poor guy—that was probably the best night of that jerkoff’s life and you’ve made it sound about as passionate as a root canal.”

Brienne feigned disapproval but began giggling too hard to make her scowl stick, so he seized upon the opening she’d given him, unwilling to tiptoe around the elephant in the room any longer.

“Well as long as we’re on the subject…” Jaime took a slightly larger sip of whiskey, leaning back a little to regard her. “Are we ever going to talk about us?”

The mirth faded from her face and her pale eyebrows knitted together with uncertainty, like she wasn’t sure if she should wait for a punchline. “What about us?”

“About, you know—” he rolled his eyes, frustrated “—us. You and I. Those last few months of high school.”

She cleared her throat and began folding her cocktail napkin in half, slowly pressing along the crease, studiously avoiding his eyes. “What’s there to say? It was ten years ago.”

“That’s it?”

He’d thought—but no, it must not have been the same for her. He’d been so messed up about what it meant to love someone back then, he wouldn’t be surprised to hear he’d managed to misinterpret the whole thing. Maybe he was better off not knowing.

“Fuck it—maybe you’re right, maybe it’s for the best, keep it in the past,” he sighed. “We were so young, and I would have been no good for you, anyway. If you’d known…you would have hated me. I had a lot of fucked up shit going on. Stuff I couldn’t tell you.”

“I knew that,” she said quietly.

He chuckled darkly, bringing the glass back to his lips. “No, you really didn’t.”

She glanced at him quickly, a sort of panic in her eyes. Jaime looked away, not wanting to see the way that panic would change to disgust, horror—fear—with what he was going to say next. Because he had to tell her. Even if she hated him for it, he owed her the truth.

But he was still gathering the courage when Brienne spoke again.

“I…I do though,” she stammered. “I knew about Cersei. And you. How the two of you were…together…your…your relationship.”

Jaime choked on his drink, throat burning and face growing hot as he coughed through it. “H-how—could you—possibly—?” he croaked.

“At your house, the party on night of the championship. I was looking for you so I could say goodbye, and I overheard the two of you talking, and, um.” Brienne was staring down at the counter, her cheeks very pink, her long fingers folding and unfolding the napkin over and over again with increasing desperation.

He cast his mind back to that evening, piecing the memories together in his head, realizing the timeline of events, understanding what it meant—he recoiled, feeling like he’d just been slapped.

“And you still let me touch you, after that?” he hissed. “You must have thought I was depraved, or sick in the head or—or—” He felt ill. “I’m sorry.”   

Brienne didn’t answer right away. The napkin was beginning to tear apart in her hands.

“There’s nothing to apologize for. I knew how it was, and I knew why you couldn’t tell me. I never held it against you.”

“You should have.”

“I couldn’t.”

“Why?”

She didn’t answer, just chewed the inside of her cheek for a long moment, finally raising her eyes to him with a question of her own.

“Are the two of you still…?”

“Gods, no,” he answered quickly, leaning forward. “No.”

But that wasn’t the full truth, was it? If he was going to tell her, she deserved to hear all of it.

“The truth is, after Bitterbridge…things were bad for a long time. I couldn’t find my way out. And she was there. So I tried to go back to how it was—even though I knew it wasn’t right, I thought I could just pretend until things felt good again. But it never worked. One lie turned into a thousand and instead of feeling better, I felt like…like I was a passenger in my own body. I didn’t even know who I was anymore. I don’t think she did, either.” He pulled air in through his teeth and let it out again in a rush, his next words forceful. “But I need you to know, it’s over, now. For good. It’s been over for years.”

He made himself look at Brienne, overwhelmed by the sympathy he saw there, almost angry when he realized none of the emotion pooling in her large blue eyes was the revulsion he knew he deserved.

“I’m sorry. That must have been…” She shook her head. “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t do that. It’s not your fault how fucked up I am. It was never your job to fix me,” he said fiercely.

No, that honor belonged to Dr. Meribald and his many years of therapy. It wasn’t until he started talking about it all that he was really able to understand how incredibly fucked up it was.

Brienne didn’t need to hear about how after their mother died, he and Cersei were each other’s only comfort. How their father was cold and unyielding, setting expectations they could never hope to live up to. How after Aerys, the police interrogations, the whispers of Kingslayer, he felt like his twin was the only one who didn’t look at him any differently, the only one who didn’t treat him like a criminal. How warm her touch had been when she took him into her arms, how easy it became to lose himself in her embrace. How many pieces of himself he lost along the way.

How he had felt whole once before, but it had never been with Cersei.

He didn’t want to burden Brienne with those details.

“I know nothing I can say will never make it make sense. I wish I could tell you I’m ashamed, but I’m only ashamed of the lie. Of not being able to see what it really was.” He shook his head. “That’s no excuse.”

“You loved her,” Brienne said simply. 

“Yeah.” Jaime exhaled, looking up again, holding her gaze. “And somehow, in the middle of all that mess, you came along.”

Her lips parted in surprise and she reached for her glass, distracting herself with another sip of seltzer.

“I hadn’t been expecting you,” he continued. “I had no idea what to do with what I felt for you.”

“Teenage hormones,” she said dismissively.

“Don’t act like it didn’t mean something.”

It had been ten years, and he still remembered every second with her. Every kiss, every touch, every hitch of her breath.

“We-we were kids,” she stammered. “You kissed me on a dare.”

“I wanted to kiss you. I told you that I wanted to kiss you—”

“It was just the game—”

“—and then I kept finding ways to kiss you. Do you not remember?”

“Because I dared you next,” she insisted.

“And then I slept with you.”

The blush she’d been managing to keep at bay suddenly flamed back to life across her cheeks. “I dared you to do that, too.”

“You did. I guess we were playing different games. Funny, I always thought…” Jaime chuckled, low and broken. “We were too young, and I was too fucked up. But I thought about it. What could’ve been. I’ve thought about it for years.”

The cocktail napkin was a pile of scraps, now. Brienne went back to fiddling with her straw. 

“We went off to college and I never heard from you again,” she reminded him. “I thought…I don’t know, I thought you were just being kind. Doing me a favor.”

“That would have been quite a few favors. Have you ever found me to be particularly charitable?”

“I know who you are, I know your kindness. Who else would have donated all that money to the Bitterbridge soccer program? Coach Goodwin claimed it was anonymous, but it’s not hard to figure out who would’ve taken an interest.”

He almost laughed, amused she’d been able to figure him out so easily.

“Anyway, you don’t have to make it out to be more than it was. I’m fine, Jaime. Honestly.”

“It matters, Brienne. You deserved better. You deserved dates—dinner and a movie. You deserved—fuck, you deserved prom. I should have taken you.”

“It wasn’t—we weren’t dating. I never expected any of that.”

“After you left for Winterfell I wanted to call you a hundred, a thousand times, but I never knew what I was going to say, because I knew I’d have to be honest. I’d eventually have to explain Cersei. If I’d known you already knew…”

The rain was slowing; Brienne turned her head to look out the window. The back of her neck was as pink as her face. He wanted to take her chin between his fingers, make her listen to what he was trying to say. He kept talking.

“I bought a plane ticket for Winterfell, once. Got all the way to the gate. Almost boarded, too, until I realized how insane it would be, turning up to one of your games uninvited when we hadn’t even spoken in months.”

And there they were again—her eyes, her godsdamned eyes. They were tearing him apart, stitching him back together, making him wonder what she saw when she looked at him.

“I thought…I don’t know. Sometimes I thought—the way you looked at me, the way you kissed me…we almost had it, didn’t we?” 

“Jaime…”

“Just tell me you forgive me.”

“I already told you, there’s nothing to forgive.”

“I took advantage of you.”

“You didn’t.”

“I wasn’t honest.”

Brienne shrugged helplessly. “Neither was I. I didn’t tell you that I—” She seemed to be wrestling with something, her face a truly magnificent shade of red now, the one he alone seemed to always bring out. “I didn’t tell you that I thought I was in love with you. Back then.”

“You…” he wet his lips, swallowed heavily. “What?”

Her phone, sitting face up on the bar between them, buzzed loudly. They both looked to it; a notification announcing her flight was ready to board lit up the screen.

She reached across the bar and grabbed his glass, knocking back the rest of his whiskey in one swallow. Jaime’s head was filled with static, unable to form coherent thoughts, heart beating like he’d just scored the winning goal in the last five seconds of extra time. Deliberately avoiding his eyes, Brienne quickly gathered up her bags. Dazed, he went to touch her arm but found she was already out of reach.

“Brienne, wait…”

“I’ll see you at the next one,” she said, sparing him one final, distraught glance before striding off to find her gate.

Five minutes of stoppage time remained and the Meereenese team was attacking hard, desperate to get a point on the board. The Westerosi defense was looking tired—the elevation in the Eyrie took a toll on everyone—everyone but Brienne. Even from a distance, Jaime could could tell how focused she was, could almost make out the intense concentration he knew would be on her face, the slight shifts in position she made as her eyes tracked the action moving ever-closer to her goal.

“I thought this was a friendly?” Tyrion asked, glancing at the television with mild interest as he wandered into the den.

“It is,” Jaime answered before flying to his feet, clapping his hands together as Brienne punched away a dangerously close attempt on goal.

Tyrion swiveled his head between the screen and his brother a few times. “Interesting.”

“What is?”

“Oh, just that look on your face. Have you told her yet?”

“Told her what?”

“That you’re still in love with her.”

Jaime’s stomach jumped. “What do you mean, ‘still’?”

“You know…because you were also in love with her in high school?”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Jaime, you didn’t leave your room for a week after she left for college.”

“I didn’t even know what love was, back then,” Jaime muttered.

Tyrion let out a long-suffering sigh and leaned against the arm of the couch. “Oh, come on.”

“I mean, I thought I did. Things got so…messed up, with you-know-who…” He dragged a hand through his hair and forced himself to look at his little brother. “I couldn’t trust myself. I’m still not sure I can.”

“Yes, it was messed up. I’m not going to pretend to understand what led you and our sweet sister to do what you did,” Tyrion conceded. “But Jaime, it wasn’t your fault Cersei didn’t know how to love you back.”

Jaime tried to watch the game, but his eyes didn’t want to focus. There was a lump growing in his throat.

“Did you really invite her?”

Tyrion shrugged. “Joanna loves Cersei’s youngest, and Tysha has this insane notion that we can all put aside our differences and become one big happy Lannister family for the sake of the children.”

“Your wife is the most optimistic person I’ve ever met. I often wonder what it’s like to be that well-adjusted.”

“I’ve wondered much the same every moment I’ve known her.” 

Jaime returned his gaze to the screen. He’d seen Cersei a handful of times in the past few years, each time reaffirming why he’d been right to end things. At least her particular brand of seething disappointment would be easier to handle than Tywin’s.

The Meereenese were taking a corner kick now. Brienne was calling out directions to her teammates, broadly gesturing with her arms. The ball sailed through the air but fell short of its intended target, and Ygritte Snow kicked it clear of the Meereenese attackers.

Jaime deflated a little. “She knew, Tyrion. The whole time, she knew. And still, she…”

“Who knew what?”

“Brienne.”

“I’m lost.”

The ball was back on the Meereenese half now, Wylla Manderly and Sansa Stark were trading passes up the right side.

“Dr. Meribald said in order to have an open and lasting relationship with someone, I would need to tell them about my past.”

“Sounds very healthy.”

“Don’t laugh.”

“Who’s laughing?”

“You want to, though.”

“What I want is for you to get to the point.”

Jaime clenched his jaw. “Well, I felt I owed Brienne the truth about Cersei—but it turns out she’s known this whole time.”

“Oh, yeah,” Tyrion said lightly. “I knew that.”

Arya Stark sent a corner kick curving through the air; her sister leapt up from the fray, sending it into the back of the net with a header. Jaime didn’t see it, though, because he was staring at his brother.

“What the fuck do you mean?”

Tyrion looked over his shoulder towards the empty doorway. “Language, Jaime, little pitchers and all that.”

“Tyrion…” Jaime warned.

His brother shrugged. “I was there when she found out. I asked her not to tell anyone, for your sake. I just assumed you two had talked about it, considering all your extra curricular activities…” he waggled his eyebrows suggestively. 

“We weren’t doing a whole lot of talking, by that point.”

How would things have been different if he hadn’t been a coward? Would they have had a chance? Jaime slumped back into the couch with a sigh. The past was the past—there was no use to thinking in hypotheticals.

“A few days ago, Brienne told me she might have loved me. Back then,” he confessed.

“And so what are you doing here? Go get her.”

“Back then, Tyrion. A decade ago. We’re different people now.”

“You’re really not.”

“Ouch.”

“I don’t mean it in a bad way. You’re still the same Jaime I’ve always known and loved, only now you’ve got the benefit of psychoanalysis and, I suppose, a light sprinkling of maturity.”

Jaime huffed out a sardonic laugh.

With only a few seconds left, the Meereenese attackers had fought their way back into the penalty box. Asha Greyjoy slid to intercept the cross, missing it by a second, and now the only thing standing between the striker and the net was Brienne—Jaime was on his feet again, hands digging into his hair, holding his breath—she made herself bigger, lunging as the ball soared towards her, the fingers of her gloved hand grazing it just enough to knock it away from the line but it was still in play, another attacker was rushing for it; Brienne dove at the ground, arms wrapping around the ball just in time. 

The whistle blew and Jaime cheered, the crowd in the Eyrie cheered—Westeros had won the match, 2-0.

“YES, Brienne! That’s how you do it!” Jaime was shouting as if she could hear him through the screen.

Tyrion was smirking. “Oh yeah, you’re totally not in love with her.”

“Come on, that was a normal reaction to a great save,” Jaime insisted, slanting a glance Tyrion’s way. “What makes you think I am, anyway?”

“Because I’ve seen it with my own two eyes while watching your interviews, dumbass. I can see the look on your face right now, watching her on that television screen. A blind man could see it.”

“Do you think she sees it?”

“I think you and Brienne might be the only two people in the world who are too stubborn to see what’s right in front of your faces. Seven save you both—don’t you think it’s funny how you could communicate so well on the soccer pitch, and can’t make sense of yourselves off of it?”

Maybe that’s why he’d turned it into a game back then; the dares had made it easier. Gave them both a way to ask for the things they wanted without getting bogged down by reality.

“Soccer I understand,” Jaime admitted. “But I’ve never known how to do…this.”

“Well I hope you figure it out soon, for both your sakes.” 

A heavily pregnant Tysha popped her head into the room to get Tyrion’s attention. “Hon, the guests will be arriving soon.”

Tyrion nodded, turning again to Jaime with a wry grin. “Time to do that thing where we pretend we’re not the world’s most dysfunctional family.”

“Oops, princesses incoming!” Tysha warned.

Joanna suddenly appeared at her mother’s hip, newly four-years old and decked out in her favorite princess dress-up costume, all pink frills and tulle, a plastic tiara perched atop her little golden head. Upon seeing Jaime and Tyrion, she scooted around Tysha’s legs and barreled towards the couch, her little sister waddling along behind on inexpert toddler legs.

“Uncle Jaime, you need to come drink tea!” Joanna insisted, tugging at his hand with both of hers.

“Seems we’ve been neglecting our princely duties, haven’t we, Lanna?” Tyrion chuckled, ruffling his younger daughter’s mop of brown curls. Joanna would be taller than him someday, but little Lanna was born with the same type of dwarfism as her father. Tyrion couldn’t help but dote on her.

“I don’t think I’m a prince, maybe I’m a dragon,” Jaime said, trying to pull a scary face but grinning when Joanna dissolved into a fit of giggles.

“Dragons don’t like tea!” she squealed. “And you’re not a dragon you’re a knight.”

Jaime’s grin grew at that idea. “A knight, eh? I guess we’ll have to see about that, won’t we?” Jaime stood and scooped his niece up under one arm, and was met with another wave of delighted shrieks.

“Me! Me!” Lanna reached for him as well and he scooped her up with his other arm, carrying both girls out of the room to peals of laughter. 

An hour later found Jaime sitting cross-legged on the ground beside a low table, a strand of plastic pearls around his neck, clip-on earrings pulling uncomfortably at his earlobes, and his very own tiara to top off the look. To his knowledge, the knights of legend tended towards armor plate and valyrian steel over costume jewelry, but who was he to argue with the nameday girl?

His cousin Daven hadn’t been offered a tiara but had instead donned some bright pink lipstick—produced with a flourish from their Aunt Genna’s purse—to noises of delight from the younger guests. Across the room, Cersei was on her third glass of arbor gold, well clear of any attempts to mar her skin with plastic jewelry.

At least Myrcella was enjoying herself. She was between Joanna and Lanna at the table, showing the younger girls how to stick their pinkies out and sip delicately at their empty cups.

“All right boys, time for a cousins picture.” Tysha was grinning, holding up her phone.

Daven let out a loud laugh and threw an arm around Jaime’s shoulders to draw him into frame. “Make sure you get my good side,” he said, preening.

Jaime’s grin faltered slightly after Tysha took the picture, catching sight of Cersei’s scornful glare. He excused himself to the restroom, but ended up slipping out to the backyard in search of a few more moments of quiet.

Tyrion’s words from earlier were still rumbling around in his head. He made it sound so easy. And where did he get off, anyway, doling out advice on Jaime’s love life? His little brother should be the one coming to Jaime for wisdom, not the other way around. But Jaime hadn’t even been good at that the one time Tyrion had really needed it, and had instead tried to dissuade him from eloping with Tysha, telling him there was no harm in waiting a few more years to make sure she was really The One. Tyrion had been right to ignore him—his little brother was usually right.

Even if he didn’t act on it, no amount of lying to himself would weaken the gravitational pull Jaime felt every time he was near Brienne. They had one more interview scheduled before the winter holidays and the start of pre-season training, and then how long would it be before they had a reason to see each other again? He was running out of time, and he wasn’t about to let another ten years go by in silence.

She hadn’t been in touch since they’d parted ways in the airport, and Jaime had spent far too long trying to think of what to say after how they’d left things. Maybe she was embarrassed. He pulled his phone from his pocket to see that Tysha had texted the photo of himself and Daven in their tea party finery. Before he could overthink it, he sent it to Brienne—maybe her embarrassment could be overcome if he offered up some of his own.

Jaime Lannister: thinking of wearing this to the next interview, what do you think?

She responded quickly—he’d probably managed to catch her on the bus ride back to the hotel following the match.

Brienne Tarth: Looks great, very elegant and not at all distracting

Jaime Lannister: is that sarcasm I detect?

Brienne Tarth: Of course not

Brienne Tarth: Tell Daven pink is his color

“What are you grinning about?”

Jaime’s head snapped up at the sound of his sister’s voice, wincing a little at the accusation in her tone. It had been nearly a year since he’d last been in such close proximity to her and Cersei was resplendent as ever, golden curls falling about her shoulders, bottle green dress fitted tight to her body, hugging the curves Jaime had once known as intimately as his own skin.

He still felt a pang of something every time he saw her, but these days it dissipated quickly, like the snuffing out of a candle's flame.

“Cers.” He nodded, shoving his phone back into his pocket. “I have to admit, I was surprised you decided to come to this.”

“Myrcella would have never let me hear the end of it,” Cersei sniffed, annoyed, “and Robert thought it would be good for her to play with her cousins.”

Jaime felt the old prickle of distaste at Robert’s name. “Will Congressman Baratheon be gracing us with his presence today?”

“He’s out of town for an important vote, some tax policy the opposition’s trying to shove down our throats.”

A few too many concussions had ended Robert’s hopes of a professional football career before it really began, so what does a man with the lurking probability of CTE do? Go into politics, of course. He was a congressman now, albeit an inept one. At least it kept him busy enough, so Jaime rarely had the pleasure of seeing him at these family gatherings, infrequent as they were to begin with.

“I’m surprised you showed up, I thought you’d be too busy cheerleading for that Tarth girl all over national television,” Cersei spat.

“Ah, there it is.”

“It’s embarrassing Jaime, truly, tying the Lannister name to such a pointless cause.”   

“I see you and Tywin have been in touch. How lucky I am, to have such a supportive family, with so many thoughtful opinions regarding what I’ve chosen to do with my life.”

“You’ve never been very good at knowing what’s best for you.”

“I’m not doing this again, Cersei,” Jaime sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

Her eyes were bright with annoyance and a little glassy—a tell-tale sign she’d had too much to drink. He eyed the recently-refilled glass of wine in her hand.

“Did you drive here?”

“Of course not, our security detail is parked out front.”

“The assignment every secret service agent dreams of—idling outside a kid’s nameday party until the Congressman’s sloshed wife is ready for a lift home.”

“Aurane is here for our protection,” Cersei said, lip curling in anger. “He’s incredibly dedicated to his service.”

“I bet he is.”

Jaime was no longer under any illusions with regards to his sister’s fidelity; he only wondered how Robert could still be so blind. Of course, Robert wasn’t exactly faithful either. Maybe it worked for them. Jaime couldn’t understand it anymore.

“Jealousy doesn’t become you, dear brother.”

He bit back a rueful laugh; it had been years since he last cared who Cersei slept with. These days he just felt sad for her. “Noted.”

Sometimes he wished he hated her—it would be easier if he hated her. He hated how they made each other feel, he hated that he ever let it happen in the first place, but still, some part of him did love her. Not like that, not anymore, but she was still his family. His twin. He wished she could see herself the way he used to, but that was the problem—he wasn’t sure that version of Cersei ever really existed. The best he could do was try to understand the one that did.

Tyrion stuck his head out the back door, his face a carefully constructed mask of disinterest as his eyes shifted between his siblings.

“I’ve been told to summon you both for the cutting of the nameday cake.”

Cersei let out a frustrated huff and swept past Tyrion. The sound of her stilettos clicking against the hardwood echoed down the hall as Jaime came to join his brother in the doorway. Tyrion knew better than to ask, just offered Jaime a wincing smile and a pat on the elbow before following him inside.   

Chapter Text

“It’s hard to argue with the success the Westeros Women’s National Team has had on the soccer field. Coming off two successive World Cup victories, they’ve reached a level of athletic dominance most teams can only dream of. But, the players say, this success has done little to improve the unequal treatment they continue to face from their own federation. Now, in the wake of this summer’s World Cup win, players from both the women’s and men’s teams are joining forces to speak out about what they deem to be a double standard in professional soccer. One such player is Brienne Tarth. Despite her status as one of the world’s best goalkeepers and this year’s Golden Glove winner, she insists she was never interested in the spotlight. Now, her team’s fight for equal status has put her squarely in it.”

The screen cut from Melisandre’s introduction in the darkened Westeros In Focus studio to Bitterbridge High’s gymnasium; Brienne and Jaime were sitting beside one another on the wooden bleachers, with Melisandre posing her questions from the row below.

“I never wanted fame, or notoriety, or whatever you want to call it,” Brienne said.

“But you wanted to be the best,” Melisandre replied.

“Sure, but for myself. Everyone on the team will tell you the same about themselves—you simply can’t reach this level of play without wanting to be the best.”

“And they’ve proven, twice now, that our Women’s National Team is the best of the best. Which is why it’s absurd how undervalued they are by their own federation,” Jaime added.

The next shot went back to the studio, a graphic of Brienne and her teammates hoisting the World Cup trophy superimposed over Melisandre’s shoulder.

“Tonight, Westeros In Focus talks to two of soccer’s brightest stars about the campaign for equal pay and what it might mean for the future of the sport. But one cannot discuss the future without acknowledging the past, which is why we met up with them in the quiet suburbs of the Reach, where the seeds of both of their impressive careers were planted: Bitterbridge High School.”

At the mention of Bitterbridge, hoots and hollers erupted from Brienne’s laptop where it sat open on her coffee table—Margaery and Sansa had come up with the idea to watch the interview together over video chat, and when Loras and Renly found out their alma mater would be heavily featured they’d wrangled an invite as well.

Ever enthusiastic, the two men had broken out into their school cheer, and their tinny chants of “BIT-TER-BRIDGE! BIT-TER-BRIDGE!” now rang out from the laptop’s speakers.

“Shh! We’re missing it!” Margaery chided.

They quieted down, only to erupt into another round of cheers when their varsity team picture filled the screen.

“Now there’s a good looking team!” Renly grinned as Loras laughed, “We look like babies!”

Brienne was grateful for the distraction their running commentary provided—even with a few more media appearances under her belt, it somehow never got easier to watch herself speak.

At least she was pretty sure she knew what to expect from this one. The interview had covered much of the same ground as the others, and she was certain she hadn’t said anything outrageous in either her shared interview with Jaime or the one-on-one Melisandre had conducted without him. What she hadn’t expected was what Jaime would say in his interview without her.

In the last few minutes of the show the footage moved to a close-up of Jaime, alone with Melisandre in an empty classroom.

“It might sound silly, but I’m really proud of her, to see how much success she’s had,” he was saying. “She’s worked incredibly hard to get to where she is, and she deserves…all of the players deserve equal treatment. I know what it must have taken for her to be willing to put herself out like this, so I know how incredibly important this is to her.” 

Melisandre smiled encouragingly, tilting her head. “Tell me more about when your paths first crossed. I believe she was the first female player in this school’s history to be allowed onto the boy’s team? Your old coach tells me you had something to do with that.”

Jaime shifted in his seat, looking a little abashed.

“He and I had to go before the administration, to convince them to let Brienne on the team.”

“I didn’t know he did that,” Brienne whispered, stunned.

“Things were different back then. She’d already had to jump through hoops to get on the JV team, and the school didn’t want to extend that special arrangement to varsity. It was ridiculous. She was the best goalkeeper to try out by a mile—if she’d been a guy it wouldn’t have even been a question,” Jaime continued. “But the school, like the federation, was too chickenshi—er, sorry, too craven to do the right thing. So I told them that I wanted to captain that team to a championship before I graduated, and I wouldn’t be able to do it without Brienne in goal.”

“And you won the championship your senior year.”

“We did.”

“It sounds like she inspired you a great deal, then and now.”

“Brienne will do that to you.” Jaime smiled, but it wasn’t the megawatt, toothy grin he used when trying to charm an interviewer. It was something smaller. Private. “She’s got so much drive, so much heart…I’ve never known anyone like her. Brienne is…well, you’ve met her, you know she’s incredible.”

“Singular,” Melisandre agreed.

Brienne couldn’t remember how to breathe. Jaime must have provided the next picture, one she remembered being taken but had never actually seen before, of the team posing together on the football field after their graduation ceremony. She and Jaime were next to each other in the back row, but while her younger self was making a half-hearted attempt to smile for the camera, Jaime wasn’t even looking at it. His eyes were locked on her profile, his face open and vulnerable in a way she didn’t know how to explain. Brienne felt herself leaning towards the screen, trying to understand, jolting a little when the picture suddenly cut to footage of their present day selves sharing a smile on the sidelines of the girl’s team’s scrimmage. A voiceover from Melisandre came on to conclude the piece, but Brienne didn’t hear a word of it.

She switched the television off as a commercial began to blare, somewhat dazed, and realized that none of her friends had spoken for several minutes. Heart plummeting, she glanced down at her laptop to gauge their reactions.

Margaery had her hands over her mouth; Sansa was whispering something in her ear. Loras had clamped his mouth shut, eyes wide.

Had she said something wrong? She tried to remember the last clip of hers they’d shown, but could only remember Jaime calling her “incredible” and his face in that photograph.

Renly was the first to speak. “Okay, if no one else is going to, I’ll say it: when were you going to tell us you and Jaime Lannister are fucking?”

“Ren!” Margaery hissed.

Loras rolled his eyes. “Oh, like you weren’t thinking the same thing.”

“We’re—we’re not,” Brienne insisted, trying to sound indifferent even as the squeak in her voice betrayed her.

“Brienne,” Sansa said gently. “I love you, but you’re a bad liar, and the man in that interview is talking about you like he adores you.”

“That’s not—we’re just friends—”

“Not just like he adores you, like he’s had carnal knowledge of you,” Margaery added, to Brienne’s despair.

“We—” she could feel the blood rushing to her face “—it was only once…back in high school—”

Renly looked as though he might be having an aneurysm. “Back. In. High school!?”

“How did I not know this?” Loras’ voice overlapped with his husband’s, somehow going up an octave with each word.

“It didn’t seem relevant—”

“Relevant?” Loras was all but screeching now.

“—and it was so long ago. I wasn’t even sure he remembered…”

“Oh, that is the face of a man who definitely remembers,” Sansa interjected with a knowing smile.

“That’s just—” Brienne was growing desperate “—that’s just how Jaime looks at people. He’s charming, when he wants to be. Ren, Loras, you know how he is. He’s charismatic. It’s not…I’m not special.”

“I suppose he is a bit of a flirt,” Loras conceded, sounding skeptical.

“I mean, sure…” Renly started, then stopped himself, shaking his head. “But I can’t ever remember him sounding like that.”

Sansa and Margaery were beaming in their little square, utterly delighted by whatever they seemed to think was unfolding. Brienne could see her own face in the screen, eyes wide and scar starkly white within the beet-red flare of her cheeks.

It must be a Tyrell family trait—first Olenna, now her grandchildren. And Sansa. And Renly. Why was everyone so intent on seeing something that wasn’t there? She and Jaime were friends. He was doing these interviews as a favor, so of course he was going to say nice things. Yes Jaime…cared for her, in his way. And sure, she’d been surprised when he’d told her how much guilt he carried over the circumstances of their high school fling, but just because he felt bad about it didn’t mean there was anything deeper to it. 

She didn’t really want to think about what he’d said at the airport, because then she’d have to remember how that conversation had ended—already, the nausea was rising in her throat—that thing she’d said to him. It had just...slipped out. At least he seemed to have taken it in stride. She’d been certain things would be weird between them, after that, but then he’d texted that hilarious photo of himself and Daven and it felt like an unspoken agreement to move past her mortifying confession as if it had never occurred. Which was good. It was what she wanted. Now they could finally, truly move forward as friends.

So the last thing she needed before seeing Jaime again was for the rest of her friends to be putting ridiculous ideas back into her head.

“You know what, I just remembered I haven’t packed for Dorne yet,” Brienne lied.

Sansa flapped her hands excitedly. “Make sure you pack that new top, the strappy one! It’ll drive him wild.”

“You have all lost your minds,” Brienne muttered. “Marg, before I go—is there anything I need to work on for the next interview?”

“Nope, you were perfect, I have total and complete faith that you’ll knock it out of the park once again.” Margaery’s large brown eyes were entirely sincere. “And I’ll give you a call once I get some more details about that press conference next week.”

“Sounds good, bye everyone!” Brienne waved at the screen. Renly was pouting.

“I still cannot believe she never told us she and Jaime hooked up in high school,” she heard him mutter just as she was exiting the video chat.

Better to just let them speculate amongst themselves than have to answer questions she’d spent the better part of a decade deliberately avoiding even asking herself. What happened between her and Jaime was in the past, and if they had any shot at being friends now her feelings for him were better kept there, too.

Brienne flew down a full day before they were due to appear on Good Morning Dorne, hoping if she squinted just right it might feel like a vacation. With all the interviews and press in the wake of the World Cup she’d hardly had a chance to enjoy her break, and now pre-season training was looming just around the corner. But she’d finally given Olenna her answer about King’s Landing that morning, and could at least enjoy the feeling of calmness that came with the weight of indecision being lifted off her shoulders.

Sunspear in late autumn was still balmy, so Brienne spent the afternoon soaking up the sun while strolling along its winding streets, only returning to the hotel for a shower and a change of clothes before dinner. Against her better judgement, she’d packed the top Sansa had told her to bring. The midnight blue shirt was no different in theory from the basic cotton tanks she normally wore, but the thin straps and silky material somehow made her feel a little more grown up, and the loose linen trousers she paired with it were just as comfortable as her favorite sweats, drawstring and all. 

She emerged again as the sun was beginning to set, taking the concierge’s recommendation of a little ocean-front restaurant nearby. And in the spirit of this almost-vacation, she decided to cheat a little on her pre-season nutrition plan, treating herself to a glass of Dornish red with her meal.

The evening was lovely. A live band was nestled into one corner of the restaurant’s patio, and music floated through the air as she ate—the the rasp of a saxophone, the swish of wire brushes on drums, the twang of guitars—all swirled together in beautiful harmony, each song as bright and lovely as the harbor lights reflecting off the rippling water below. There’d been space set aside for dancing between the band and the candlelit tables, and couples would periodically make their way over to sway along to the music after finishing their meals.

Brienne lingered after paying her bill, the breeze off the Summer Sea a warm caress over her bare arms as the last gasp of daylight faded from the sky. She felt pleasantly fuzzy, sipping every now and then at what was left of her wine, enjoying the slightly sour taste as her eyes wandered over the patio. It was the most relaxed she’d felt in months. So of course Jaime Lannister had to walk in.

How did he always find her?

Why had part of her been hoping he would?

The pretty brunette hostess was smiling at him, her fingers toying with a necklace at her throat. Brienne thought briefly about making a run for it before Jaime could spot her, but short of vaulting over the railing and jumping into the sea she had no chance of getting away without drawing more attention to herself.

As if on cue his eyes lifted, finding her. The corner of his mouth twitched upwards as he said something to the hostess who, smile fading slightly, stepped aside. 

Brienne wanted to look away as he walked over but couldn’t so much as blink—his eyes never left hers, holding her in place the whole while.

“Great minds,” Jaime said, coming to a stop at the edge of her table. “Mind if I join you?”

As usual, he looked far too handsome to be real—sleeves rolled up to his elbows, shirt only buttoned halfway, a wide stripe of suntanned skin peeking out from the gap. Brienne had a sudden urge to reach forward and flick open the few remaining buttons, imagining how his muscles might jump if she pressed her hand to his chest, if he’d want her to keep going.

Suddenly thirsty, she brought her glass to her lips and nodded, wordlessly gesturing to the empty chair on the other side of the table.

“That doesn’t look like seltzer, Tarth,” he teased, taking a seat.

She shrugged. “When in Dorne.”

“Guess I better catch up, then.” He flagged down a nearby waitress and flashed her his dazzling Jaime smile.

See? Brienne thought as he ordered a glass for himself. Nobody knows what they’re talking about. He’s charming with everyone.

The waitress left and he rested his elbows on the table. Candlelight caught on the blonde hair of his forearms, burnished from the sun.

“I didn’t realize you were flying down today,” he said.

She shrugged again, inexplicably frustrated that he’d care. “It was a spur-of-the-moment decision.”

“Wish you’d told me—I just came from dinner at Oberyn’s. He and Ellaria and the baby would have loved to meet you.”

“Oh…” her mouth dipped open in surprise.

“Ah well, next time.”

His glass of Dornish red arrived and he took a long drink, leaning back in his chair. Watching her.

“Looks like you got some sun today,” he said. “Your chest is pink.”

Knowing he was looking at her chest would only make it go pinker. She distracted herself with another sip of wine and nodded.

It took some time before she could work up the courage to look his way again. Thankfully, his gaze had shifted to the dance floor. A grey-haired couple was dancing in the center, not as quick on their feet as the others around them but enjoying themselves nonetheless, smiling at each other contentedly.

“I wonder what it’s like to have been married that long,” Brienne wondered, realizing too late she’d said it aloud.

Jaime looked at her, head titled. “You ever been close?”

“To what?”

“Marriage.”

She snorted, bringing her glass back to her lips.

“So there was no special someone after Hunt?” he asked.

There had hardly been anyone after Hyle, special or otherwise.

“No one worth mentioning.”

Jaime leaned forward, a mischievous glint in his eye. “So what you’re saying is, I ruined you for all other men.”

Yes, she thought, pulse growing quicker. Of course you did.

As much as she’d tried to chalk it up to raging teenage hormones or selective memory the truth was, no one had ever come close to what she’d experienced with Jaime during those last few months of high school. He’d somehow captured her heart all those years ago and she’d never quite managed to set it right again.

But she couldn’t say that, so instead she replied, “Don’t flatter yourself, Lannister.”

He smirked anyway and settled into his seat again, one arm draped across the back of his chair and the other outstretched to the table, thumb absently tracing the stem of his wine glass.

“What about you?” she asked.

His face pinched inwards, bemused. “Pretty sure they outlawed that centuries ago.”

“I didn’t mean…her, I meant after. What about Hildy?”

Hildy—a model so famous she went only by her first name, whose lingerie campaigns had given her the crass superlative of “Most Recognizable Cleavage in Westeros”—whose picture had appeared next to Jaime’s in several breathless tabloid stories not long ago.

“Hildy?” Jaime seemed amused. “Don’t believe everything you read on the internet, Brienne. I spoke to her maybe a handful of times at a couple of events we’d both been invited to, and suddenly every gossip columnist was falling over themselves to come up with elaborate lies about our non-existent relationship.”

“Oh?” She felt oddly relieved.

“Oh,” he replied.

They settled into an easy silence. Brienne tried not to let her eyes wander to him too often, feigning great interest in everything but the man seated across from her—the tendrils of purple-flowered vines climbing the walls, the other patrons, the full moon rising over the ocean.

When the hum of Jaime’s voice floated back across the table, at first she thought she’d misheard him.

“What?” Brienne asked.

“I said: you still owe me a dance.”

Candlelight flickered across his face, his green eyes alive in the warm orange light. Her breath grew short.

“I dared you to dance with me at prom, and since neither of us went to prom, you’ve yet to fulfill the dare,” he explained.

“But I don’t know how.”

“Yes you do, just follow my lead.” Jaime pushed his chair back and stood, extending a hand to her. “Unless you forfeit?”

Her nostrils flared, lips quivering with the sudden urge to smile as the contours of their old game took hold. He knew her competitive spirit always outweighed her trepidation.

She took his hand without thinking and let him lead her across the patio. He turned to face her when they reached the dance floor, his other hand finding her hip as hers fluttered cautiously to his shoulder. His skin was warm under the thin fabric his shirt.

“So…” he said softly, beginning to move to the music. “I think we should talk about you being in love with me.”

Her stomach flipped—of course. It had been wishful thinking to believe he’d let it go without teasing her about it, first.

“In high school.” She cast her eyes to the side, once again finding it impossible to look directly at him. “It was ten years ago, it was—“

“Was?”

“We were eighteen.”

“Hm.”

“Don’t act so smug about it, I’m embarrassed enough as it is.”

A line appeared above his brow. “Why are you embarrassed?”

“I should never have said anything, I knew you’d tease me about it.”

“That’s not what I’m doing.”

“Sure.”

He pulled her tighter, hand creeping further around her hip, fingers pressing against the small of her back. She shivered; they were very close, now. He smelled incredibly good.

“I liked hearing it,” Jaime said, voice low and warm against her ear.

She wanted to kiss him.

Biting her lip hard she dropped her eyes to her toes, suddenly very interested in the small shuffling steps of their feet. He couldn’t just…say something like that. Not when his thumb was tracing a line against the base of her spine. When she could feel his breath on her neck.

She swallowed, closed her eyes. Tried not to tremble.

The end of this press tour couldn’t come soon enough. If she could just make it through one more interview with him, she’d have enough time to come up with a plan to stop swooning like some lovesick fool every time she was near him. She wasn’t even sure she’d make it through the next five minutes.

When Brienne lifted her eyes again his were still right there—searching, serious. Somewhere along the way they’d stopped dancing. She hadn’t even noticed.

“It’s getting late,” she lied.

Jaime nodded in agreement, though it was barely eight o’clock. Her skin missed his touch when they came apart—it was all she could do not to reach for him again.

They returned to their table. Brienne grabbed her handbag from where she’d stashed it under her chair, and Jaime dropped far too many dragon notes for what the wine had cost beside his half-empty glass. The cobblestone streets outside the restaurant were narrow, still thick with tourists meandering to and from dinner. The low murmur of the crowd buzzed all around them, the sharp slap of sandaled feet on stone echoing into the night. Her breath caught at every brush of his shirt sleeve against her arm. They didn’t speak.

The walk back to the hotel was a short one. Brienne barely took notice of the lobby as she and Jaime crossed its tiled floors to the waiting elevator. They were alone as the doors slid shut, and he was still so close—she wanted to fist her hand in his shirt, find out if he still tasted the same. Her skin was vibrating with the need to touch him and her cheeks were growing warm again, her chest, her—

Get a grip, Brienne.

She fixed her eyes on the ceiling as the elevator began to rise. It was the wine, the music, the moonlight. It was this place, casting some spell to make her want impossible things. But she was an adult now. Her brain was fully developed. She wasn’t going to do anything stupid, like ask Jaime Lannister to sleep with her again.

She was going to get off at her floor, and he would continue on up to his. They’d go to their separate rooms and fall asleep. The temporary magic of this place would wear off, and in the morning she would be rational.

Brienne took a deep breath, almost believing herself, because she knew—in the morning she’d want him just as much as ever. She was getting tired of fighting it.

The elevator dinged its arrival at her floor and she turned to him, intending to say goodnight, but different words tumbled out altogether—three of them, the only three she was brave enough to say, the only way she knew how to ask for what she wanted—her heart pounding in her throat as she said, “I dare you.” 

Jaime stared at her hard, utterly silent. She felt her blush rising, already wondering how she’d be able to sit next to him in the television studio tomorrow and pretend like she hadn’t just said what she’d said, when—his eyes fell to her mouth. Her breath caught. The elevator doors began to slide shut again and he threw an arm out, stopping them from closing.

His carpet-muffled footsteps followed her down the deserted hallway, his breath hot on the back of her neck as she fished her keycard out of her purse, as the door clicked open, as they stepped into her darkened room together.

The moon had climbed higher, its pale light spilling through a gap in the curtains, slicing a long sliver of white across the floor. Brienne walked a few paces into the room and dropped her purse to a chair, stepped out of her shoes. Behind her, Jaime shut the door and flipped the latch into place. Her heart was pounding.

“Well, Brienne?” he said, voice low and dangerous. “Why am I here?”

She turned to find him in the shadows. “I dared you. We both know you don’t like to lose.”

He moved closer, eyes sharp and intense as they found the moonlight. “That’s the only reason?”

“Yes,” she whispered, unsure.

It had only been the dares—she’d told herself that for years; all of it, everything that had happened between them in high school was just part of some bizarre competition. Sure, things had escalated significantly for a while there, but still. She’d been so certain it had all been part of the game for him.

He brought a hand to her waist. She stifled a gasp as his knuckles brushed over her pelvis, his fingers toying with the drawstring of her trousers. He gave it a light tug, coaxing her towards him.

“You don’t—” She blinked, stumbling half a step closer. The green in his eyes was almost black in this light. “I dare y—”

He kissed her before she could get the words out.

Every wall she’d tried to build around her heart came crumbling down as Jaime’s lips crushed against hers. It was like before. Nothing had changed—the urgency, the heat, the need—everything she’d felt for him before had been just under the surface, waiting. And she could blame the wine, or the music, or the moonlight but the truth was—she loved him. Still.

His hands drifted over her shoulders, stroked her neck, cupped her face. She could taste the faintest sour trace of Dornish red on his tongue as it slipped against hers. Some small sound escaped her throat and she threaded her fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck, needing him even closer.

“Gods, I missed you,” Jaime groaned against the corner of her mouth. “You were so far away.”

“I wasn’t—”

He shook his head. “Where have you been?”

“Waiting—” she gasped as his lips found her neck “—for you.”

He made a sound like a growl; she felt it between her thighs.

“Do you have any idea how hard it’s been not to touch you?” He palmed her breasts through her shirt, skimmed his hands over her waist, found the drawstring again and tugged it loose. “All I wanted—” her hands met his and together they pushed her trousers down, her underwear, she needed—she needed “—fuck, Brienne…”

He kissed her, hard, fingers gripping her hips while hers fumbled with the buttons of his shirt. It fell to the ground too, and she sighed, palms sweeping over the broad expanse of his back, feeling the way his muscles spread and flexed, noticing the power a decade of training had added to his body.

They were dancing again, different steps than before, blindly moving further into the room. The back of her legs found the desk, and then somehow she was sitting atop it. Jaime reached behind her to flick the table lamp on. She chased after his hand to switch it off, but he caught her wrist.

“I want to see you,” he breathed.

She opened her mouth to protest and he took her face in his hands again, kissing her breathless, nudging her legs wider. He dropped to his knees.

A strangled noise escaped her throat at the first press of his mouth between her thighs. He hitched one of her legs over his shoulder, caressing it as she quivered above him, seemingly unbothered by the way her heel was digging into his back. She braced herself against the desk with one hand, the other buried deep in curls. Her eyes fell closed. Within moments he had her whimpering, each little noise like notes on a scale as they built up and up and up, and when she managed to glance down to where his face was buried, deep in her lap, she found his eyes—dark and heavy and watching her. She came with a groan, breath catching as her thighs clenched about his head, feeling him smiling against her. A bead of sweat slipped down her spine. Once he’d worked her through the last of the waves he leaned back on his heels, pressing a wet kiss to the inside of her thigh.

“Better than Kyle Cunt, I hope?” He grinned, cheeks flushed.

She burst into a tremulous laugh. “You can’t possibly be thinking of Hyle right now.”

Jaime rested his temple against her knee, fingers skimming up and down her calves as he gazed up at her. “I wish I’d gone to that reunion. It should’ve been me going back to your room with you that night.”

“Jaime, the World Cup was more important than a high school reunion.” She tugged at his shoulders, urging him to his feet so she could kiss him again. She could taste herself on his lips. “Anyway, you don’t have anything to be jealous of—I think he lasted all of forty-five seconds.”

He chuckled. “Hm, forty-five, you say? Tough record to beat, but I’m always up for a challenge.”

She raised her eyebrows, feigning skepticism, but she should have known she’d never be able to fool him—he was already sliding a hand between her legs and she arched into him, mouth falling open—

“Bed,” Brienne gasped. “Need you—”

He hummed in agreement, taking her by the hips, and then she was standing on shaky legs, stumbling with him towards the bed. She groped at his waistband between kisses, finding the button, the zipper, enjoying the low, pleading noise he made when she slipped a hand inside his boxers and rubbed her palm against the hard length of him.

His hands found their way under her top, stroking her skin, grinning when he realized she hadn’t worn a bra—there’d been no point, the shirt’s straps too thin, her breasts hardly worth the trouble—she lifted her arms so he could pull it over her head, and suddenly she was bare and he was surging forward to meet her again, taking her in his arms, trailing hot kisses down her chest, drawing a moan from her throat when his mouth closed over first one breast, then the other.   

Finally they found the bed, and as she eased herself down to the sheets Jaime remained standing, trousers still caught around his thighs. She watched him watching her, his eyes heavy with lust and roving over her naked body as he freed himself of his last bits of clothing.

Ten years ago, she’d been too consumed by him to be nervous that first time, too desperate for his touch, wanting only to savor every last moment with him. It was the same now, her awareness of her body limited only to sensation, desire. There was no room in her mind for worry over her size, no thoughts of how ridiculous she must look stretched out naked before him, nothing delicate or girlish about the freckled expanse of her body. There was only the press of his lips to hers as he lowered himself to the bed, the scratch of his stubble against her chin, the evidence of his desire pressed hard against her stomach.

Breathless and aching, she parted her legs for him.

“Let me just—” voice rough, Jaime glanced over the side of the bed where his trousers had fallen. “I’ve got—ah—in my wallet.”

She reached for his face. “I have an IUD,” she murmured. “Easier for soccer. Are you…?”

He would have been regularly tested just as she was—routine blood tests were a standard part of team training.

“Yes,” he breathed.

“Me too.” She lifted her hips to meet him. It was all the encouragement he needed.

They both groaned as she took him in. Brienne knew then that as good as her memory was she’d never been able to do this particular one justice—the thick heat of him filling her, the weight of his body sinking into hers, the flex of his muscles under her fingers as he began to move.

He set a deliberately slow pace, one hand caressing her jaw, her neck, her breasts with each thrust of his hips. A sob caught in her throat when his lips fluttered tenderly over her ruined cheek, and she dragged his mouth back to hers, tongue slipping over his in a long, deep kiss.

She hitched her legs higher around him and the angle shifted—fuller, more. Her breath came in short bursts and he moved faster, their sweat-slick stomachs sliding together as she rocked up to chase him. The tattoo on his shoulder was rippling as he moved above her, the black ink of the lion seeming almost alive in the dim room. She pressed her lips to it, tasting salt.

Her hands were tight around his shoulders but Jaime’s were somehow everywhere—his palms smoothing over her legs, her arms, his fingers spearing into her hair. He sought out her lips but could only pant against her, mouth open against her chin, and she held him closer still, breaths matching his own, growing quicker and quicker until finally—something burst deep within her, stars erupting behind her eyelids as she clenched around him with a broken cry. She was still shaking when he grunted into her neck a few moments later, shuddering as he collapsed against her.

She held him close, limbs pleasantly numb, feeling each rise and fall of his chest against her own; she wondered if the sound of someone else’s breathing had ever been so sweet.

He rolled off of her with a sigh. “Ten fucking years, Brienne.”

She made a noise of agreement in her throat.

“I’ve been wanting to do that again for ten fucking years.”

“You—” She swallowed; there was no point in lying. “Me too.”

“Yeah?”

She didn’t need to look at him to hear the smile in his voice.

“You’re being smug again,” she said, smiling too.

“Oh, I think this is quite an appropriate amount of smug, actually. It’s not every day I get to sleep with a two-time World Cup champion.”

Brienne snorted, the laughter bubbling up out of her chest before she could stop it, and he was grinning at her in a way that made her want him all over again. It was a dangerous thing to want.

She didn’t know what this thing was between them. Didn’t want to ruin it yet by asking.

Their sweat cooled, and her skin grew sticky. She excused herself to the restroom, needing to clean herself up anyway, thinking he could take the opportunity to leave if he wanted to—he had his own room, likely much nicer than hers—but within moments of turning on the shower he was joining her, sharing her washcloth and kissing her sweetly under the hot water. 

Then she thought he would dress and leave after he was clean, but he only climbed back into her bed, naked and smelling of her shampoo. Not knowing what else to do, she switched off the light and took the other side.

He mashed a pillow a few times until it was to his liking and shoved it under his head, turning to face her.

“Hey.” His voice was hoarse.

“Hi,” she whispered back.

“I need to ask you for a favor.”

“What is it?”

Eyes half-closed, Jaime reached his hand out and traced one finger down the length of her crooked nose. She turned to look at him.

“Don’t leave,” he murmured.

Her heart clenched in her chest. “I won’t.”

“Promise me.”

“This is my room,” she tried to joke. “Where would I even go?”

“Just—” he paused for a long moment. She couldn’t help herself, lifting a hand to brush a damp curl from his forehead. He hummed, eyes drifting closed. “Stay this time. Stay with me,” he whispered. “I dare you to stay.”

It was the easiest thing he’d ever dared her to do.

Chapter Text

It was either very late or very early when Brienne woke again, she wasn’t sure; the digital clock on the nightstand was broken and her phone was in her purse, halfway across the room. But the sky outside was still dark and the world felt quiet. Slipping out of bed, she dug through her suitcase to pull on a fresh pair of underwear and the giant T-shirt she usually slept in, before padding over to the window to look outside. Moonlight spilled into the room as she drew the curtain back.

If she hadn’t heard the sheets rustling behind her, she could have almost believed it had all been a particularly vivid dream. But when she turned back to the bed there he was, Jaime Lannister, warm and real and stirring awake with a languid stretch. He cracked one green eye open, mouth curling into a crooked smile when he found she was awake, too.

“What time is it?” he mumbled, voice gravelly with sleep.

“I don’t know,” she whispered. “Still night.”

Jaime rolled onto his back with a sigh, unfurling an arm towards her and wiggling his fingers in invitation. She took his hand and he grunted, hauling her back into the bed until she was flush against him, legs tangled with his and the duvet bunched up around them both. Stretching their linked hands across his chest, he began lazily tracing her knuckles, the lines of her palm, the pads of her fingers; he twined and untwined his fingers with hers, tilting his head back and forth, almost like he was studying the way they fit together.

“What’s your favorite color?” he asked.

She huffed out a laugh, surprised by the question. “I’m not sure.” Her mouth twisted in thought as Jaime’s fingertips slipped over her wrist. “Yellow? Or maybe green, like springtime.”

He grinned, amused.

“Why’s that funny? What’s yours?”

His eyes were glimmering, two shining emeralds in the dim light as he brought his other hand to her face and brushed his thumb over her temple. “Blue.”

Oh. Surely he had other reasons for liking the color, but her heart skittered in her chest all the same. He titled his chin forward to kiss the dumbstruck droop of her mouth.

“Favorite food?” he asked next.

“Um…” The kiss had made it difficult to think properly. “Lobster rolls. My dad makes them for me every time I visit.”

“That sounds amazing.”

She hummed in agreement, thinking of her recent trip to Tarth, of her father’s sunny kitchen and his favorite oldies station playing from the radio as they stood over the table, cracking lobster shells together. “What about you?”

“There’s this little hole-in-the-wall breakfast place in Pentos—they do things with eggs you would not believe. Best meal I’ve ever had.” He sighed wistfully at the memory. “Speaking of breakfast, how do you take your coffee?”

Brienne bit back a smile, unsure where all this curiosity was coming from. “Milk, no sugar.”

“Noted.”

“Anything else you want to know?” she asked, half-joking.

He released their still-joined hands to draw the duvet off of her, frowning slightly at her half-dressed state. But in the next heartbeat her breath quickened as he hooked a finger under her underwear and slowly dragged one side down, exposing a patch of skin on her hip.

“These were a surprise,” he said.

Surprised he wasn’t the only one with tattoos. Of course hers were well hidden and not anywhere near as extravagant as his, just the outline of two small stars inked astride her hipbone; her teammates were the only ones who had ever seen them until now—not even her father knew they were there. Jaime brushed the thin lines with his thumb.

“One for each World Cup win,” she explained, heart fluttering at his touch. “We all got them together, after the game—Osha’s wife is a tattoo artist. She brought her gear along, just in case.”

“And how much celebratory champagne was involved in that decision?”

Brienne laughed. “Oh, a fair amount.”

Jaime grinned and dropped his head back to the pillow. The lion on his shoulder caught her eye.

“Tell me about this one,” she said, smoothing a palm over its inky mane.

Chuckling, he twisted his head to glance at it. “Not much to say. A rare moment of ancestral pride.”

She let her hand slide down his chest, over the hard ridges of his stomach searching out the next one, six numbers scrawled along the side of his abdomen. She’d noticed it last night—a date, some fifty-odd years ago.

“Your mother?” she asked.

He looked at her strangely. “How’d you know?”

She shrugged. A guess. “I had the thought to do the same for my own mother. And for Gal.”

There was something like wonder in his eyes as he brought a hand to her face and cupped her cheek, kissing her softly.

“And what about this one?” Brienne asked after, covering his hand with her own and lowering it until his arm was stretched out over her stomach. Done in the same black ink as the lion and his mother’s birthday, the sword on his inner arm ran almost the entire the length of his bicep from elbow to armpit. His muscles jumped as she dragged a blunted fingernail up it. 

“Just something I read about in a history book, thought it was cool.”

“As if you ever paid attention in history class,” she laughed.

“Well, there was always an awful lot to be distracted by.”

She tried to cast her mind back to Mr. Pycelle’s class senior year, but could only recall the monotonous way their ancient teacher would drone on and on, as if it was actually his goal to put them all to sleep.

“I can’t think of a single interesting thing that happened in that class,” she said.

“You didn’t have the view I had.” Jaime smirked, nudging her knee with his. “How could I be expected to focus when these legs of yours were just a couple rows over?”

Brienne rolled her eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous. I know I’ve never been anything to look at.”

Brow wrinkling he shifted to prop himself up on one elbow, staring down at her. “I like the way you look. I’ve always liked the way you look.”

She rolled her eyes again, trying to play along with the joke. Trying to laugh. “Jaime, don’t lie.”

“Who’s lying? I mean it.” He almost seemed angry. “You think I’m not attracted to you?”

A lifetime of mockery had taught her such things were impossible, and she didn’t want to answer, didn’t want to spell it out for him. “I don’t know. I know you’re…drawn to me, in some way.”

Jaime pushed himself fully upright, the blanket pooling in his lap. She glanced up at his face and was met with an incredulous stare. “Drawn to you? I would hope it’s obvious that I’m really fucking turned on by you.”

His voice was a low growl, sending heat rippling under her skin. She believed him. Not like Hyle, who’d insisted on keeping her shirt on and the lights off, or that guy in Braavos she’d gone on a couple of dates with, who hadn’t wanted to kiss her until he was a few beers deep and his vision had gone a little blurry. But Jaime had never shied away, had never seemed to mind looking. He’d always wanted to see her. It made absolutely no sense to her and probably never would, but she knew he wasn’t lying, either.

“I mean, gods,” he was murmuring, almost reverently, skimming the tips of his fingers down one of her freckled legs. When he reached her ankle he lifted it into the air, moving to place a kiss against the bone. She shivered.

“Your legs are insane—” he shifted again, pressing another kiss along the outside of her calf “—every last—” his lips found the back of her knee “—mile of them.”

By the time he reached for her underwear she was already throbbing for him, lifting her hips to help drag them off. His lips grazed the inside of both of her thighs in turn, but his hot breath only ghosted over the swollen spot between them as he moved up, fingers toying with the hem of her shirt.

“And fuck, your abs—” Her breath was coming in shallow, short bursts as he pushed the fabric up over her stomach, muscles contracting involuntarily. When his lips came to rest on a spot beside her navel a whimper escaped her throat, and she felt his answering grin against her skin.

Humming a little, he skimmed both hands up her waist while peppering light kisses over her ribs, tongue darting out over the small swell of one breast, then the other. Her nipples were so hard they almost hurt, and she twisted her fingers into his hair, trying to guide him to where she was aching.

“Patience.” He chuckled into her flesh. “I’m not finished, yet.”

She squirmed beneath him but loosened her grip, chest heaving as he continued his journey north. He licked at the hollow of her throat before tracing the length of her clavicle, where his teeth lightly nipped the firm slope of her shoulder.

“Would you believe me if I said I’ve thought about these arms every day for a decade?”

Brienne shook her head in disbelief. Jaime inhaled deeply, rising to his knees, the proof of his attraction evident as the blanket slipped from his lap. She let her hands fall from his hair as he took one of her arms, practically quivering as he kissed the inside of her elbow, the tender skin at her wrist, the pads of each of her fingers.

She needed him, was nearly ready to open her mouth and beg for it, when he stared directly into her eyes and closed his lips around one of her calloused fingers, drawing it into his mouth. She didn’t have words, after that, the electric shock it sent to her core enough to temporarily rid her of speech.

Evidently pleased with himself he grinned again, turning his head to kiss her palm before linking their fingers together and raising her arms over her head. His weight sank their clasped hands into the pillow as he pressed into her, teeth drawing her lower lip into his mouth.

“These lips,” he rasped, breath nearly as shaky as hers. “I could kiss these lips for days.”

Gods, she wanted him to. She wanted to slow down time, reduce the world to just the two of them, moving together in this darkened room for eternity. But he was already shifting again, releasing one of her hands so that he could cup her scarred cheek.

“And your eyes—do you even know what your eyes do to me?” His thumb moved in a gentle arc, caressing her from nose to ear. “How quickly they pull me under, how easy it is to drown.”   

She was hardly able handle the look in his eyes, so full of heat she was sure she’d burn to ash if she held his gaze for much longer. Closing her eyes against the rush of emotions, she arched her neck and brought their lips crushing together. His other hand flexed in hers. 

“We’ll be tired in the morning,” Jaime murmured against her mouth.

“We’ll drink coffee.” 

“Excellent point.” He rocked up to rest on his heels. “Come here.”

He tugged lightly on her hand and Brienne rose, reaching for him with the other. Wrapping his arms around her, he coaxed her into his lap with kisses so long and deep they made her dizzy. It was so easy to forget herself when he was kissing her like that. So easy to pretend that this was all there was, just the two of them in this bed—that morning would never come, and they’d never have to face the light and define what this thing between them really was.

She always wanted too much.

But it wasn’t in her nature to be greedy, and he had enough to worry about right now without her trying to complicate things. And being completely, inescapably in love with him really complicated things. Something constricted in her chest and she tried to chase the thought away, bracing herself against his shoulders.

The moonlight bathed him in silver, but he was like gold under her hands as she sank down onto him. Her breath hitched as she began to move, wanting to remember everything, every moment—his mouth hot against her neck, the firm press of his fingertips against her flesh, the powerful flex of his muscles under her hands; her name, falling from his lips as he came undone.

The morning arrived almost painfully quickly. Sated and drifting off to sleep in Jaime’s arms, Brienne felt as if she’d only just closed her eyes when she was suddenly blinking them back open, awakened by the shrill ringing of the hotel phone. She freed one of her arms, blearily groping around on the nightstand in search of it, wincing as the automated wake-up call blared out of the receiver when she lifted it to her ear. Jaime groaned into her hair.

“Fivemoreminutes,” he mumbled, slurring the words together as he pulled her closer.

The prospect was certainly tempting. Unfortunately they needed to leave for the Good Morning Dorne studio by seven, and she didn’t think being late on account of a night of mind-blowing sex was something she was prepared to explain to the production team.

So she disentangled herself from Jaime’s embrace, earning herself another displeased groan, and sat up to switch on the bedside lamp. When the room filled with light he grumbled again, the words unintelligible as he rolled onto his stomach to bury his face in a pillow.

Seeing him sleep-rumpled and stretched out in her bed made it incredibly difficult to turn away. Somehow she managed it, collecting her underwear from where they’d landed only a few hours prior before rummaging through her suitcase for a bra—the more clothes she had on, the less tempted she’d be to blow off the interview and spend the entire day in bed with him.

Her shirt and trousers for the interview were hanging in the closet so she pulled those on next, then ducked into the bathroom to brush her teeth. Her hair was a complete mess after falling asleep with it wet the night before. If she’d had Sansa’s skill for braiding she could’ve hidden the worst of it with an elaborate plait, but she’d have to make do with splashing some water onto her hands and slicking it back into a limp ponytail. She definitely looked a bit rough, but hopefully some coffee and a touch of concealer from the makeup team at the studio would disguise it well enough.

When she finished up in the bathroom Jaime was still dozing, looking like an overgrown version of the teenager she once knew with his arms wrapped around a pillow and the rest of him sprawled nearly diagonally across the bed. She resisted the urge to pinch herself, still struggling to believe the night before had actually happened.

But it had. More than once, the slight soreness between her legs a gentle reminder, and she wanted it to keep happening. I dare you to stay. Had he just meant for the night? How would he feel about forever?

Now, of course, was not the right moment to ask. They were on a schedule, one which hadn’t accounted for the possibility of an early morning We Had Sex Now What Does It Mean conversation before breakfast. In fact, they were already in danger of falling behind if Jaime didn’t start getting ready soon. Brienne grabbed her phone and made her way over to his side of the bed.

“Jaime.” Leaning down, she gently raked her fingers through his hair. “Time to wake up, it’s—” She glanced at her phone to check precisely what time, only to be met with the cascade of notifications that had come in overnight. Her hand stilled in Jaime’s hair.

He made a disappointed sound, frowning as his eyes cracked open.   

“Huh,” Brienne said, sinking to sit beside his hip. “I’ve got a bunch of texts and a voicemail from Margaery last night.”

Jaime finally roused at that, hauling himself up with a grunt as she flicked through Margaery’s texts. The first few were all variations of give me a ring when you get this and the last was a link to a news article, published late the night before.

“Checking in, was she?” Jaime asked, dropping a kiss to her shoulder before tucking his chin over it. “What will you tell her? ‘Trip’s going well, spent the night blowing Jaime Lannister’s back out, looking forward to this morning’s interview’?”

Brienne pulled her eyes away from the screen, torn between smiling and scowling at him.

“Apparently she already thought we were—well, you know,” she admitted.

“Fucking?”

She blushed. “Yes, fucking.”

“Maybe she’s got greensight, like in the fairy tales,” he joked.

“It wasn’t just her. Renly and Loras said you look at me a certain way, and Marg and Sansa agreed with them.”

Jaime grinned, delighted. “Do I?”

“They’re ridiculous, I know.”

“What’s ridiculous about it?”

She chewed at her lip, swiping over to Margaery’s voicemail in order to avoid having to answer that particular question. Luckily, it was quickly driven from her mind once the message began to play.

“Shit,” Brienne swore as Margaery’s rushed voice reverberated through her head. When the recording ended, she swore some more.

“What is it?” Jaime asked.

“There’s been a—shit. I have to call Marg back. Right now.”

“Will she even be up at this hour?” Jaime’s brow knitted with concern while she pulled up Margaery’s number. “Is everything okay? Do you want me to go?”

“No, stay. I’ll probably need to fill you in, anyway…a bunch of internal emails from the federation got leaked to the press. They weren’t positive.”

“Shit.” Jaime kissed her shoulder again before leaning over the side of the bed to sort through his clothes on the floor.

“Brienne?” Margaery answered on the first ring. “Oh thank the seven you’re up—I was worried when you didn’t answer last night!”

“I’m so sorry, my phone was on silent and I, um…I turned in early last night.” Stumbling over the lie, Brienne caught Jaime’s eye. He lifted his hips off the mattress to pull on his boxer-briefs, barely biting back a smirk.

“I’m sorry to hit you with the SOS like this, but shit is hitting the fan in a major way. Did you have a chance to read the article?”

“No, I called the instant I heard your voicemail. What’s happened?”

“Those absolute ghouls at the federation, I swear…” Margaery sighed angrily. “I mean, it’s not like we didn’t know they’d eventually start pushing back at us, but if this is the kind of misogynistic garbage they’ve been saying behind closed doors…I can’t imagine they plan on going into any sort of negotiations in good faith. You’re going to want to have lawyers present, I’ve already had a few reach out.” Margaery’s voice grew muffled, like she was repeatedly scrubbing a hand over her face as she spoke.

Brienne’s stomach lurched—they’d been prepared for the eventual negotiations to be difficult, but she’d thought the team’s winning streak coupled with the positive coverage coming out of their interviews would’ve made the federation take public opinion into consideration. Evidently it had only caused them to close ranks.

Margaery let out another long breath. “You know, Jaime should probably hear this, too. Do you think he’s awake yet? Is it too early to conference him in?”

“Um. He’s awake. He’s here with me.” She glanced at Jaime again. He was zipping up his trousers, looking quizzical. “I’ll put you on speaker so he can listen.”

“He’s—oh. Oh!” Brienne could almost hear the wheels turning in Margery’s head over the phone.

Jaime swung his legs around and sat beside her on the edge of the bed. Clearing her throat, she hit the speakerphone button. “Okay Marg, we’re both on now.”

Jaime rolled his eyes, clearly amused, but his smile quickly hardened into something fiercer as Margaery began to explain the new developments. By the time she finished he was looking closer to incensed, and Brienne placed her hand on his knee, thumb gently sweeping back and forth in the hopes of quelling some of that outrage.

“Look, I know it’s not what we were hoping for but we can use this. Now we get to dictate the response,” Margaery was saying. “We’re going to get the whole team on a conference call at the top of the hour—everyone needs to be on the same page before speaking to the press. I’ll reach out to Good Morning Dorne and tell them we need to switch this morning’s interview to a remote segment, so you can stick around and get prepped with everyone else. And I can barely keep track of all the other interview requests pouring in—it’s going to be all hands on deck today. How’s the wi-fi at the hotel?”

“It’s good,” Jaime supplied. “I paid for high-speed in my room, we can get set up to do any interviews from there.”

“Fantastic. And I know you were both scheduled to fly home this afternoon…”

Jaime tilted onto one hip to slip his phone out of his back pocket. “No need to worry. I’ll have Peck push our flights to tomorrow.”

“Amazing. You’re both amazing, have I told you that lately? Absolutely amazing.” Margaery sounded relieved. “I’ve got to start going through these interview requests before the team call and start thinking about how to best divide them up. I’ll talk to you again in about—” she sounded like she was craning her neck to check the time “—forty-two minutes.”

As soon as Margaery ended the call Jaime jumped into action, fingers flying over the screen of his own phone as he typed out several messages in quick succession.

“Okay, once Peck wakes up he’ll reach out to you for your flight details, so he can take care of all that, and then he’ll extend our room reservations another night. Unless, I mean…” he looked uncharacteristically sheepish, scratching at the stubble covering his jaw as he glanced up from the screen. “You could pack up your things and move into mine for the extra night. Make things simpler for him.”

Even knowing their day would be nothing but chaos, Brienne felt her heart leap at the thought of spending another twenty-four hours with Jaime. She shrugged a shoulder in agreement. “Yes, that seems practical.”

He took a keycard out of his slim wallet, pressing it into her hands. “Spare key,” he explained, eyes sparkling. “It’s the Starfall suite on the top floor.”

“Fancy,” she teased. Grinning, he leaned in to kiss her.

“By the way, I didn’t get a chance to say good morning,” he murmured against her lips. “Very rude of me.”

“So rude,” she agreed, nodding as he kissed her again.

“Well, good morning, Brienne.” He made it sound surprisingly dirty, pulling back a little to get a proper look at her. “You look very nice today.”

She scoffed. “I look very tired today.”

“Worth it, though.”

Brienne could only nod some more, seeking out his lips again. Yes, this was very much worth it. She could learn to live with a certain level of sleep deprivation if it meant waking up to Jaime like this, morning breath and all.

He slung his arms around her waist, tugging her closer. Heat blossomed wherever their bodies touched, and his tongue was doing something incredibly interesting, pulling soft noises from her throat when he—

She gasped, pressing her hands flat against his chest. “Thirty-seven minutes,” she said, as much a reminder for herself as it was for him.

Jaime sighed, dropping his forehead to her shoulder. “Right. Yes.” He helped to straighten her blouse, smoothing the collar flat. “How about I go on ahead and order us some breakfast? I’m not sure I’ll be able to keep my hands to myself long enough to let you pack, otherwise.”

As if on cue, her stomach chose that moment to growl ravenously—yes, that seemed like a very good idea.

Twenty-eight minutes later Brienne found herself on the top floor of the hotel, juggling Jaime’s spare key and her luggage as she tentatively nudged open the door to the Starfall suite. A short hallway led her to a comfortably-sized sitting room, the curtains of which had been thrown open to take advantage of the stunning ocean view. The sun was just beginning to rise, now, and warm, golden light filled the room as she wheeled her suitcase to a spot where it wouldn’t be in the way. Jaime popped his head out of what she assumed was the bedroom, toothbrush dangling from his mouth and cell phone in hand.

“Did you have a chance to read any of this shit?” he asked around the toothbrush.

She had, and it had made her nearly incandescent with rage. The federation’s leaked emails—all filled with deeply sexist arguments about skeletal structure, muscle composition and phrases like “biological inferiority” being thrown about as justification for why female athletes deserved to be paid less—were not so much about establishing a starting point for negotiations as they were an opening salvo to war. But she only needed to take one look at Jaime, his green eyes narrowed and freshly-shaved jawline clenched in anger on her behalf, to have her spirits buoyed. The federation had no idea who they were dealing with.

Jaime was shaking his head, aghast, still scrolling on his phone as he ducked back through the doorway to finish getting ready. Brienne glanced around the sunny sitting room, trying to decide on the best spot to set her laptop up for their day of video calls. There was a rectangular dining table with four chairs arranged around it, and the light from the floor-to-ceiling windows reached it easily. By the time she’d plugged her charger into the nearest outlet and pulled up the meeting link, Jaime had come to join her. He dragged one of the other chairs around next to hers and leaned down to bump a kiss to the crown of her head, the spicy scent of his aftershave mingling with his minty breath.

She wasn’t going to read too much into how casually he doled out affection like that, how domestic it all felt.

“Ready to go?” Brienne asked, passing him one of her wireless ear buds.

“Hang on, we’re too tall, this angle isn’t great.” Jaime hopped back up again and grabbed an empty, decorative bowl from the coffee table. He flipped it upside down and lifted her laptop to rest on the flat base of it, inspecting the little video preview window, tilting the screen slightly. “There. Perfect.”

It seemed silly, but for all she’d learned over the past few months she was still grateful for how much more experience he had with all these different kinds of media appearances; the raised angle went a long way in making their set up for the day look way more professional than it really was. She could’ve kissed him for it, but knew she might never stop if they got started, so she settled for squeezing his hand in thanks, instead, giving him a reassuring smile before logging into the first call of the day.   

Her fellow teammates were in varying states of wakefulness, given the early hour, but all were equally pissed off at this latest round of buffoonery from the federation. Margaery gave everyone a few minutes at the top to get the bulk of the expletives out of their systems before diving into what kind of response to craft. The federation, sensing how badly they’d misjudged public sentiment, had already tried to backtrack by publishing a mealy-mouthed apology—which of course was currently being ripped apart all over social media. It seemed that the email debacle was only serving to endear more people to the team’s side; even some of the team’s corporate sponsors had begun issuing statements condemning the federation’s “disappointing language” and “outdated stance.”   

The room service Jaime had ordered arrived ten minutes into the meeting. He quietly excused himself to answer the door, and it took only a moment before Brienne’s phone was lighting up with a text from Sansa; the message didn’t contain any words, just a truly outrageous number of heart-eye and thumbs-up emojis, with a few eggplants thrown in for good measure. Brienne jerked her eyes back up to the video call, blushing as she found the square with her friend’s grinning face. Sansa’s gaze dropped briefly, typing something else, and a few seconds later Brienne’s phone lit up again.

Sansa Stark: promise you’ll tell me EVERYTHING!!! 😍😍😍

Brienne bit back a smile. She hardly knew what to tell herself about whatever had happened—was still happening?—between her and Jaime…but it was nice, having people in her life who cared about stuff like that. She’d never really had that before, always so careful to control how much of herself she revealed to others, even the people she considered friends. She was beginning to realize how much fuller her life had become by allowing others in.   

A little over an hour later the team had come to an agreement on a statement and Margaery had managed to divvy up interview requests between the all the players who’d been doing media since the World Cup. Brienne and Jaime were left with only a few minutes to prepare for their now-remote interview with Good Morning Dorne. They’d at least been able to multitask by eating breakfast while on the team call—given the early hour, almost everyone else had done the same. Brienne moved their dirty dishes and coffee cups out of frame before settling back down next to Jaime, using the little video preview to make sure there wasn’t any food stuck in her teeth. Making one last attempt to smooth her hair into submission she found herself distracted by Jaime’s face beside hers on the screen, and finally understood what her friends had been trying to tell her—it was somehow much easier to notice when she could see his mirror image staring at hers in real time.

“When we go live, you need to stop doing that.”

“What am I doing?”

She rolled her eyes. He could be so purposely obstinate when he wanted to be. “Looking at me like…however it is you’re looking at me right now.”

“Oh? And how am I looking at you?”

Refusing to rise to his bait, she reached for her coffee again. “You know how.”

He brought his lips close to her ear and murmured, “Like I just spent half the night inside you?”

To her credit, Brienne managed not to spit coffee out all over herself or the laptop, just proceeded to choke on it, instead. She forced it down, coughing a little as Jaime thumped her a few times on the back, enjoying himself far too much. Lucky for her—or perhaps for him, because desperately in love with him or not, he might not have escaped unscathed if she’d had to go straight into the interview still sputtering and red-faced—the production team at the studio needed a few minutes to make sure everything was good with their feed before actually pushing them live. She got him back later, though, at the end of their third interview of the day, by lightly trailing her hand up his out-of-frame thigh just as the host was thanking them for their time and throwing to a commercial break, so that Jaime’s eyes only had time to go wide with shock for half a second before their video feed ended.

It must have been the lack of sleep finally catching up to her, because she was feeling a little punchy; that was one of the most brazen things she’d ever done in her life, second only to daring him to take her virginity back in high school. The lack of sleep was probably also why she began giggling uncontrollably at the look of surprise on Jaime’s face. He frantically lunged forward to make sure they were definitely disconnected, slamming her laptop shut as laughter bubbled up in his own throat. And then he was kissing her again, and they were yanking at buttons and zippers, tripping over each other in their haste to get to the nearby couch, laughter turning to grunts and moans and all sorts of other sounds that were definitely unsuitable for daytime television.

Miraculously, they managed to connect to the next interview on time, looking only the slightest bit disheveled, after which they had a long enough break to take what might have been the best nap of Brienne’s entire life, before having to get back up and run the whole media gauntlet over again for the evening news broadcasts—by which time another statement from the federation had come out. It seemed that some of the higher ups had finally read the room enough to realize the tide of public sentiment was not going to turn their way on this one—or maybe the wave of sponsors threatening to withdraw support had managed to scare them shitless. In any case, federation president Walder Frey had agreed to tender his resignation, effective immediately.    

It obviously wasn’t a solution, but it was the first hint that they might finally be getting somewhere. Like one of those particularly tough matches where her goal had been under relentless attack, but the other team couldn’t quite manage to get the ball into her net and she’d feel the momentum start to shift, the way the opposition would start to get desperate and sloppy while her teammates were only just getting started. 

So after that, the rest of the evening was a breeze.

Somewhere around dinnertime Oberyn Martell texted Jaime with the offer of a late meal after the last interview, and why not bring Brienne along, too? Eyebrows raised in question, he slid his phone across the table to show her the invitation. She wouldn’t have put it past him to turn it into a dare if she balked—it was on the tip of his tongue, she could see the familiar glint in his eye alongside something that looked a little bit like hope—deciding to agree to it before he could get the words out, just to deny him the satisfaction.

Previously, the idea of meeting Oberyn seemed like it lived somewhere between professional courtesy and social obligation. After all, she admired his talent as an athlete, and he’d made no secret of his appreciation for hers. But going now, with Jaime—going with Jaime after sleeping with him again—felt like it carried all sorts of confusing implications. Was this a meal between colleagues? Was he just facilitating introductions between like-minded friends? Or was he a man, reaching for the hand of his…whatever she was to him, unphased to be seen holding it when Oberyn answered the door? And of course he hadn’t needed to make any introductions at all—Oberyn and Ellaria greeted her like an old friend, hugging her right there on the doorstep.

Dinner wasn’t quite ready yet so they all stood chatting around the kitchen island while Oberyn finished cooking, and by the time they were moving to the dining room to eat, Brienne realized her initial nervousness had completely faded.

As they took their seats at the rough-hewn dining table Jaime leaned in to whisper, “I knew they’d love you.” He seemed pleased about it, sitting with an arm slung over the back of her chair and his posture relaxed, as they talked and ate and laughed their way through the meal.

And it all felt so…normal. Like something she could get used to. When the baby woke up to feed and Ellaria suggested Brienne hold the soft, squirming, precious bundle of her, Jaime looked on with something wondrous in his eyes, and she couldn’t help the way her chest ached in response. There were things she’d always tried to stop herself from wanting, loose ideas in her mind she would never give shape to, but the longer she was around Jaime the clearer their outlines grew. A vision of what the rest of her life could be like if only she’d find a way to reach past the fear and doubt to ask for it. The past few months had given her more practice with asking for the things she wanted, but this was the biggest thing of all. This was her heart, and she’d spent her whole life guarding it as intensely as she guarded her goal on the pitch. She didn’t know how to do anything else.   

Later, when she and Jaime climbed under the covers of the enormous bed in his suite, the words wouldn’t come. She had the impression they were both fighting off sleep, too exhausted to do much more than lazily touch each other’s skin and murmur quietly in the dark. Because if they fell asleep the morning would come, the magic spell Dorne had cast over them would be over, and they would have to get on their separate planes and back to reality. So she didn’t want to ruin it and maybe Jaime didn’t want to either, beginning to ramble as he searched for things to say.

“What’s your pre-season schedule look like? Maybe I could come down to Storm’s End, make you show me around a bit—I didn’t get to see much of the city last time.”

Her thoughts drifted to his knee. She’d noticed it last night—the remnant of his multiple surgeries, long scars spanning the length of his kneecap. And she knew he was worried about what might happen when he was cleared to play again, if he’d still have that once-in-a-generation talent he’d risen to fame on…or if it was lost forever. So maybe he really did want to come visit her, or maybe the closer he got to being fully recovered the more he was trying to delay ever having to find out. 

“Jaime…you can’t keep missing your sessions with Illyn. I’m already the reason you've missed so many, dragging you along to all these interviews.” He opened his mouth in protest but she plowed ahead. “You keep acting like you’re ready to give up, but you’re so close, you’re nearly there. Okay, so you might not be starting this season, but I know you’ll come off the injury list by the end of it as long as you quit sabotaging yourself.”

“I’m not—” He closed his eyes, frowning a little. “I just don’t know how long it will be before we see each other again.”

Maybe he was trying to make sure she didn’t feel like a one-night—two-night—stand, even if that’s all they ended up being. He was being kind; he didn’t owe her anything.

Still, she nearly told him, then, swallowing thickly to keep the words down—the visit from Olenna, the offer she’d been given, the decision she’d made. Because she still needed it to be her decision, and if she told him now, when there was still time to change her mind…what if she saw something in his expression that gave her second thoughts? Worse yet, what if he tried to talk her out of it? She had no idea what his reaction would be. Better to just do what she needed to do and only face him after it was too late to take it back.

Her throat felt tight when she spoke again, deciding to at least give him the partial truth. “I’ve got to come up to King’s Landing for something next week, maybe after we could—”

But he was already kissing her, so the rest would have to wait.

The player’s lounge was buzzing with excitement, packed with investors and sponsors and a number of other people she’d never met before, all of whom wanted to meet her. Thank the gods Margaery was there. Even though she wasn’t technically working in her official PR capacity, she’d still taken it upon herself to expertly guide Brienne through the assembled crowd, making introductions left and right.

“Thank you for that, I know you’re not on the clock today,” Brienne murmured after they’d finally cleared the gauntlet. The long hallway outside the lounge was much less crowded; she took a deep breath, steeling herself for the main event.

“Like I’d have let you face the whirlwind alone!” Margaery patted her arm. “Anyway, I love you and I love my grandmother, so there’s no place I’d rather be today.”

Brienne gave her a wavering smile as they rounded the corner to the media room. Olenna and the other co-owners of the brand new Crownlands FC were lined up just outside the door, going over last-minute details ahead of the press conference.

“There she is, our woman of the hour!” Olenna was beaming, ushering Brienne to the front of the group to let her peek through the door.

The media room wasn’t very big to begin with but it looked even smaller now, filled to the gills with journalists and photographers. Aside from the World Cup, she’d never seen this many members of the press assembled for women’s soccer—with all the recent news about pay equity and the federation’s blunders, the sport was finally getting the attention it deserved. 

And even though she was pretty certain she’d never get used to the attention, for once she wasn’t nervous at all because she felt sure—sure that she’d made the right decision, sure in the knowledge that being a part of this team was exactly what she was supposed to be doing. So even though it was a whirlwind, for once she was happy to be along for the ride.

“Ready to go?” Olenna asked.

Brienne took a deep breath and rolled her shoulders back. “Absolutely.”

The press conference could have lasted ten minutes or two hours, for all she could remember of it. First came the official announcement from Olenna, followed by a chorus of camera shutters as Brienne bent over the table to officially sign her new contract. More photos followed as the rest of the co-owners presented her with the very first Crownlands FC team jersey; Brienne held it up, smiling, not even bothering to shield her scarred cheek from view. She was wanted here. This team was investing in her, and she was excited to step into the unknown with them, to help build something they could all be proud of for generations to come.   

After the photos they opened the floor to questions from the assembled journalists—all were easy enough to answer now that she’d had so much practice—then the press conference was over and she was being led back to the player’s lounge for a champagne toast. By the time it was all said it done and she was climbing into a taxi outside the arena, Brienne felt like she’d shaken hands with half of King’s Landing.

Her nerves finally made an appearance when she gave the driver the address for a luxury high rise downtown. A few news outlets must have already published their articles covering the announcement, because for the past twenty minutes her phone had been periodically buzzing with congratulatory texts. Her heart sped a little with each new message, hoping the next one wouldn’t be from Jaime—she wanted to be the one to tell him, to stand there in front of him and see what expression his face wore when he learned the news. But he’d moved up to two sessions a day with Ilyn and would have only just been finishing up with the second now, and it was unlikely Pia, or Peck, or anyone else would have had the chance to break the news to him yet.

She hoped he’d be happy about it but she wasn’t stupid, either—just because they’d had sex in the weird, liminal space of a business trip in an unfamiliar city didn’t mean they’d made any promises to each other. And if he had known she’d be moving to his city, would that have changed his mind about sleeping with her in the first place? It was one thing to want her when geography presented a ready-made excuse for keeping things casual, and quite another to find out they’d soon be sharing an area code. Even though King’s Landing was enormous, their respective teams would be sharing the same arena and training facility, so if nothing else they were sure to run into each other occasionally whether he wanted to or not.

The doorman knew to expect her, and led her to an elevator at the back of the shiny, modern lobby. Once inside, Brienne took out her phone to pull up one of the articles. Her thumb hovered over the little arrow icon, stomach rising higher in her throat with each passing floor. Now or never, she thought, finally hitting send. The text message whooshed away moments before the elevator doors opened, depositing her directly into Jaime’s penthouse apartment.

She’d been expecting more of the sleek modernism that had been on display in the lobby, and was instead surprised by the rustic warmth of the lofted space. Double-height brick walls soared up to a ceiling striped with thick wooden beams, making the enormous room feel oddly cozy despite its size. Clearly the main living space, the kitchen and living areas were open to each other at opposite ends, and a hallway to her left presumably led to the bedrooms, bathrooms, and home gym she knew were here somewhere.

But all of her focus was on Jaime, standing near the couch in the middle of the large room. He looked frozen in place, like he’d been on his way to greet her at the elevator and had suddenly stopped mid-stride. He was staring down at his phone, brow furrowed in confusion.

“What did you just send me?” he asked.

“Um.” She didn’t quite have the words, now that she was actually there.

He smiled like she was playing some strange joke on him, eyes skimming back and forth over the screen as he made his way over.

“Hang on, I don’t understand…” His eyes went wide, raising his head to gape directly at her. “I knew the club was forming but I didn’t think…don’t you have at least another season with Stormlands?”

“Crownlands bought out my contract.” Her cheeks flushed; not only had they bought it out—her new contract was going to make her the third-highest paid female athlete in the country. “They sort of…want to build the club around me.”

“Are you serious?” His expression was unreadable.

“Yes?”

“Gods, Brienne, that’s—” For a heartbeat she thought she might be sick, but then Jaime’s face was breaking out into an enormous smile and he was sweeping her into his arms, nearly lifting her off the ground in a hug “—incredible! Why didn’t you say anything sooner?” He loosened his grip slightly, pulling back to search her face.

“Well legally, I wasn’t supposed to tell anyone until the contract was signed. So I could have still changed my mind if…” She should have practiced this part. Her thoughts felt disconnected from her mouth, stumbling over her words. “I care what you think, and if I’d told you and you didn’t…it would have been so easy to second guess myself. Then Dorne…happened, and I felt like if I said something to you after…I guess I was worried you’d think I was doing it because of you.”

“Oh.” His face fell. “Right, of course.”

“No, I didn’t mean—oh, this isn’t coming out right at all.” Brienne glanced around helplessly—he was the one who was good with words, not her. “I just…I needed to be sure I was making this move for the right reasons, that it was the best decision for my career. Hells, it’s not even just my career riding on this, this team could be the future of women’s soccer—it’s enormous, and it’s exciting, but there’s so much at stake if it doesn’t go right. And so on top of all of that, the fact that you’re here, too, is—”

“Irrelevant?” he interrupted.

“No.” She shook her head. “It’s more than I could have hoped for. It seemed too good to be true—not only would I get to do this thing that could be so important for my career, it had the added bonus of taking me closer to you. But I was worried you’d…I know we haven’t talked about it, and I’m not going to hold you to promises you never made, or try to worm my way into the life you’ve built here, or…or anything like that.”

She was rambling, distracted by the amused grin slowly spreading over his face.

“So,” he said softly, “just making sure I’ve got this right—you’re telling me that you’re moving here. To King’s Landing.”

She nodded slowly. “Yes. And don’t worry, the team’s already found me my own apartment, I’m not expecting you to—” but the rest of her words died on her tongue as Jaime surged forward to kiss her. Well, it was really more of a bumping of mouths—he was grinning too much to aim properly. She didn’t mind.

“Brienne, I’d have you move in with me today if you told me it was what you wanted.” Laughing a little, he tilted his head to get a better look at her. She could barely process what he was saying; her heart felt like it was performing backflips under her ribs. “Because my life here? I want you in it. I want it more than anything. I want it even more than I want to play soccer again. I never feel more myself than when I’m with you…it’s never been like this with anyone else. And I dare you to tell me you don’t feel it too.”

She’d already spent a decade lying to herself, a decade without him, missing him, trying to convince herself it was for the best. Now he was standing right in front of her, daring her to keep lying. She took a deep breath; someone had to lose the game eventually.

“I do feel it,” she confessed. “I do. I just never thought…”

The angles of his face began to shift, somehow soft and intense all at once.

“Is it really so hard to believe?” he asked. “Do you know how many times I thought about you, after your nameday at the swimming hole, before we’d even kissed? How many times I closed my eyes and tried to picture every freckle, every muscle, the exact shade of blue of your eyes?” He reached up, gently cupping her cheek. “But it’s not just…I’ve been in fucking awe of you since we were kids. There you were, this girl who made no sense to me, holding your own out on that pitch, putting yourself through hell even when anyone else would have given up. I couldn’t figure you out, so I tried not to pay attention. I told myself I didn’t care. But then you gave me that chance, that tiny chance to get to know you, and I grabbed it with both hands because I knew I might never get another. I couldn’t help it, you were extraordinary—are extraordinary—in more ways than you know. I think I loved you before I even knew how.”

“Jaime…” she whispered, overwhelmed. Her eyes burned; his thumb brushed something wet from her cheek.

“I’m an idiot for not telling you all of this a long time ago, but I’m going to take the fact that you haven’t punted me out the window yet as a good sign. Because the thing is—I don’t want to lose you again.” He brought his other hand to her waist, holding her steady. “You are the only person who’s ever actually seen me, seen all of me, the good and the bad and the fucking terrible, and you still…you haven’t looked away. I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve that, but I’ll do whatever it takes to keep you looking because when you look at me, somehow everything just makes sense. I am so incredibly in love with you, Brienne.”

She couldn’t believe what he was saying, each word breaking over her like the crashing of a wave, knocking the breath from her lungs.

“Please say something,” he murmured. “I’m kind of pouring my fucking heart out, here.”

His eyes searched her face and there was no laughter in them, no hint of a joke; she knew him too well to think he was telling her anything other than the truth. She let out a long breath, and found her voice. 

“Jaime, I am so incredibly in love with you, too.”

It was not so much a confession as it was a statement of fact. An acknowledgement of what had been there all along—some fundamental piece of her soul slotting into place. It lived deep inside her marrow, had lived there for a decade now and would remain for every decade to come, until her heart stopped beating, and then maybe even a few decades more. She hadn’t realized she’d been living a life blurry around the edges until she’d spoken the words aloud and suddenly everything shifted into focus with Jaime there at the center, his beaming face filling her vision as he swept her into a deep kiss.

His smile was bright as the sun when he broke away for air. “You know, I think somewhere in there I might’ve finally won our game.”

“That sounds suspiciously like gloating, Lannister,” she said, trying to sound scolding and failing utterly.

“Yeah, I might be. You still love me, though.”

Brienne tried to roll her eyes, but was grinning so hard it almost certainly ruined the effect. Jaime slid his arms around her waist. She took his face in her hands. And when their lips met again, she felt the rest of her life begin.

Chapter Text

—

FOUR MONTHS LATER

—

Seventy-one minutes into the game an excited murmur rumbled through the stands—Coach Selmy had motioned for Jaime to begin warming up, and everyone in the arena had noticed. The Knights were leading by two after the half, on their home turf in front of a friendly crowd; it was as good an opportunity as Jaime could’ve hoped for to ease himself back into playing, to get some touches on the ball without the pressure of needing to score a match-winning goal hanging over his head. Still, his heart thumped a little faster as he stood and ducked out of the protective cover of the bench.

A light misting rain had begun to fall, giving the early evening air a fuzzy quality under the arena’s bright floodlights. Not the most ideal weather conditions to mark his return to professional soccer, but when Coach Selmy had pulled him aside during halftime Jaime replied with a single, brisk nod. He was ready.

“And I do believe…yes, that’s Jaime Lannister getting ready to take the field for the first time in almost two years,” he imagined the commentators would be saying over the broadcast, on tenterhooks to see whether or not he’d make a fool of himself, probably already hedging their predictions and mentally preparing a few different reactions in order to sound prescient no matter which way things went.

Everyone would have understood if he’d just decided to retire instead of chasing after his past glory—maybe he could’ve taken a few well-paid endorsement deals while the memory of his former skill was still fresh, or dabbled in a few investments to keep himself relevant in the sports world as his star faded. But his phone still buzzed with the occasional call from Varys, and Jaime had always found spite to be a powerful motivator. That, and Brienne’s unwavering belief in him.

So he worked at it. Threw himself into his training sessions with Ilyn and felt himself growing stronger as the weeks went on, his muscles knitting back together, his body becoming something he could trust again. Then, a week before the season began, Tywin finally followed through with his threats of disinheritance. Varys had actually showed up in person to deliver that delightful little message. Jaime didn’t know how the man had gained access to his building, and was already making a mental note to have a chat with the doorman when, having overheard Jaime’s raised voice, Brienne came thundering into the room looking like she was debating whether or not to drop kick the meddling little weasel down the elevator shaft. It was pretty awesome.

Varys made a quick exit after that, disappointingly unscathed and oddly apologetic. The invisible hand Jaime had been choked by his whole life released its vice grip, slowly then all at once, relief rippling through his every muscle as the realization dawned on him—he would never gain his father’s respect, and he didn’t want to. No amount of talent or dedication or skill would ever prove his worth to Tywin Lannister. He was free.

The substitution board was being readied. Bouncing on his toes, Jaime shucked off his scrimmage vest and rolled his neck, eyes combing over the closest section of seats. The stands were awash in white and gold—his team’s colors—flags and scarves fluttering brightly in the air against the quickly-darkening sky. His brother was home in Lannisport watching with Tysha and the girls; knowing Jaime had been cleared to play, Tyrion had sent a good luck text before the game along with a picture of Joanna, Lanna and baby Elinor decked out in their Lannister jerseys. (“I’m well and truly outnumbered now,” Tyrion had called him from the hospital after Elinor was born, overjoyed and a little delirious as he aimed his phone’s camera at the ruddy pink bundle in Tysha’s arms.) But there was one other face he wanted to see before stepping onto the pitch.

Nerves could never reach him when he was out there, but he’d be lying if he said he was feeling completely at ease. Even if he couldn’t make out her expression from this far away just knowing Brienne was there, with all her certainty and belief in him, would be enough. Her very presence had a way of reminding him of who he was and who he was still striving to be.

“Coach could still change his mind, you know,” he’d said earlier that afternoon, slinging his duffle over a shoulder as he was leaving for the arena.

Seeing right through his feigned nonchalance, Brienne reached out and kissed him sweetly. “He won’t,” she said, hands gently bracketing his face as she pulled back to give him a steadying smile. “You have nothing to worry about. You’re ready, Jaime.”

She was right, of course. She always was.

And his stomach had swooped—not with apprehension, but with the rush of fondness he always felt when Brienne showed him how many different ways there were to love a person. He was still learning, imagined he could live forever and never stop discovering new ways, with her. The love was in all the ways they supported one another, without ever needing to be asked. It was in each confessed hope and dream and fear. Sometimes it was in the way she was unfailingly positive when he was determined to feel pessimistic, and yet other times it was in simply keeping quiet, knowing when he just needed to wallow a bit before he’d be ready to shake it off.

He felt it in every moment with her. In the admiration and adoration, the frustration and delight, the amusement and serenity. It was so easy to love her.

They’d gone so long not talking about things that it was almost odd how easily they told each other how they were feeling now. When she’d come to him four months ago, her eyes wary, her voice clipped and unsure as she told him about Crownlands and moving to King’s Landing, he realized how ridiculous his fear had been. They’d both been dancing around their feelings for so long that the thought of speaking them aloud had felt like standing over the edge of a chasm, something dangerous and terrifying, when crossing it was really only the distance of one step; they just needed to put one foot in front of the other and see what was waiting on the other side.

She was always so brave, his Brienne, so it had been his turn to find the courage. Once he’d decided, once he’d lifted his foot to take that proverbial step he knew there was no turning back. It all came tumbling out to her—his feelings had been stored up for so long he barely knew what he was saying as the words spilled out, the dam breaking at last. But instead of causing destruction it had only washed away all the obstacles and uncertainty, leaving nothing but the bright honesty of truth in its wake.

He had never been a religious man, never believed in the gods, not really, yet sometimes he wondered if some higher power had smiled down upon him the day they’d set Brienne Tarth in his path. How would his life have turned out had he not dared her to come to that party senior year? If he hadn’t decked Ron Connington in the weight room, if she hadn’t tried out for the team? If Oberyn's baby hadn't come early, allowing for their paths to cross once more? The shock of it still hit him, sometimes, when her face was the first thing he saw in the morning and the last thing he saw before closing his eyes at night.

They hadn’t officially moved in together yet—though, Jaime noted with a grin, more and more of her belongings seemed to migrate over every week. Whether she admitted to it or not her presence was steadily spreading throughout his home; her toothbrush next to his, her razor on the shower bench, the empty section of the bedroom closet she was quickly filling. Her sneakers by the door, her laptop at the dining table, her vitamins in the cabinet next to the sink. Little totems of Brienne were scattered throughout his apartment, tethering her to the space, bringing a smile to his face whenever he missed her during long days of training or when she was out of town for an away game—the comfort they inspired, knowing she’d be coming back soon, knowing they were building a life together.

They’d slotted into each others routines with stunning ease, and he couldn’t quite believe how much time he had now to soak her in now, to learn her—her complexities, the familiarity of her and all the newness, too. He loved all of it—the way her eyes shimmered like ocean waves glinting in the sun when she laughed, how grouchy she could get before her first cup of coffee in the morning, lips pulled tight as she waited for the machine to finish brewing. The line between her brows and the slight tilt to her head when she was trying to solve a problem, no matter how minor.

He liked that she called her father every weekend to catch up, giving Jaime the chance to learn what it sounded like when a parent and their child enjoyed a healthy, caring relationship. He discovered that she liked to do the crossword every morning over breakfast, refusing to cheat and look up any answers she didn’t know. She liked her eggs scrambled with spinach, her toast with butter, not jam. When he found out which brand of protein powder she preferred, he immediately placed a reoccurring delivery so that she’d never run out. She didn’t watch much television but never missed an episode of The Blue Knight. She hummed while she folded laundry. She preferred the side of the bed closest to the door, and liked to sleep in T-shirts she bought from men’s big and tall shops.

He learned other things, too, like the shade of pink her cheeks flushed when he touched her just there, the tone of every soft sound he drew from her plump lips, how her sweat tasted on his tongue when they stripped down to their skin and fucked on the kitchen floor after an early morning run.

He learned—or maybe remembered—how much he loved bickering with her over silly things, whether it was disagreeing over some call a ref made in a game they were watching, or the merits of leaving a pan to soak in the sink overnight versus washing it right away. Unimportant arguments that got his blood going almost as much as the rest of her did, and usually ended in one or both of them conceding the point to kisses and quivering thighs. It was Brienne’s rule that they should never go to bed angry, making sure they always talked through any lingering disagreements before falling asleep at night. Jaime was more than happy to oblige; there was no argument worth winning if it meant losing her in the process.

But most important of all, he learned just how much he loved sharing even the most mundane parts of their days with each other, simply because he got to share them with her.

Not that their days had been all that mundane. With her star on the rise, Brienne was even busier than Jaime both on and off the pitch. She was apologetic but he was delighted, excited to be along for the ride. There was something intoxicating about watching her get the recognition she was due, recognition she and her teammates had long deserved but had always been denied because of ridiculous ideas about tradition and biology. And now that Ravella Smallwood had been appointed as Walder Frey’s successor, pay negotiations were finally moving forward. There would still be some fights ahead, but Smallwood had expressed a genuine interest in doing right by everyone. If all went well, there would be a new, fair contract in place before summer.

Of course with so much new attention on Brienne it also meant that she’d been photographed leaving Jaime’s building enough times to start rumors swirling, and it hadn’t gone unnoticed how often he’d been in attendance at her Crownlands games. Their relationship wasn’t something they were explicitly hiding—Jaime had already done enough of that for one lifetime—but they weren’t exactly ready to broadcast it to the world at large, either. His love for Brienne was precious. Private. And after years of sneaking around with Cersei, protecting that privacy had become second-nature to Jaime…though it felt different with Brienne. Harder to hide, maybe, because he was just so fucking happy and it was clear to anyone paying attention exactly who had sparked that abrupt shift in his mood. Everyone would find out eventually.

The little velvet box hidden in his sock drawer would certainly make the rumors hard to deny.

He’d bought the ring the day he got back from Dorne. Before he had the first clue of what he was going to say, before he knew about Crownlands, before he even knew if she felt the same way. But he wandered into the jewelry store with a vague plan of doing some holiday shopping, and there it was. Its two small diamonds were set into a slim silver band, but the gem that had drawn his eye was the slender sapphire they were flanking, catching the light from the display case and somehow, incredibly, shining the exact shade of blue as her eyes.

As far as engagement rings went it was decidedly modest—far less ostentatious than his mother’s ring, which Jaime had helped liberate years ago from their father’s safe once Tyrion had made up his mind to propose to Tysha. This ring was unfussy while still being worthy of Brienne, and the thought of anyone else wearing it had Jaime pulling out his credit card before he’d given himself time to consider exactly what he was doing. It was definitely too soon and he was absolutely pushing his luck, so he was forcing himself to wait before actually popping the question. But the idea was there. The intention. He was simply holding onto it for when the time came.

And the time would come, because he wasn’t going to fuck it up this time. She was it, for him.

Back in the arena, Jaime’s eyes finally landed on the familiar shape of her towering frame in the last row, just beneath the suite levels. Up on her feet, she’d pulled the hood of her sweatshirt up, trying to evade the notice of the crowd around her—as if she could ever blend in, as if he’d ever want her to—cupping her hands around her mouth to cheer when she realized he’d spotted her.

Jaime felt his heart swell a little more. He was ready.

The substitution board went into the air at last, its LED lights glowing brightly with Jaime's and Daario Naharis’s numbers. He shook his arms out one last time and took a few slow, even breaths, making sure to note everyone else’s positions as Daario jogged over. His teammate pulled him in by one hand for a quick clap on the back as they traded places, and Jaime let his feet carry him onto the pitch; a sound like a great ocean wave rose from the stands and a shiver stole through him, the hairs on the back of his arms standing up as the crowd roared.

He slotted into formation and in an instant everything else melted away as the ball came back into play. He had a sense that he was…not home, because home was Brienne—but every cell in his body vibrated, knowing he was back where he belonged, doing this thing he’d been so afraid he’d never get to do again. His instincts were still there, his reactions were still sharp. He wasn’t even aware of the rain anymore, the misty drops steadily soaking into his hair and beading over the fabric of his uniform no longer something worth noticing. The grass would become slippery before long but he didn’t have time to worry over it—didn’t need to; he’d regained trust in his body and was sure of each footfall, each twist of his legs. Being out there felt as natural as breathing.

His aim hadn’t left him, either—quickly gaining possession of the ball, he moved up the center with it, keenly aware of his teammate Beric Dondarrion sprinting up the right side. When Beric called out Jaime immediately clocked the open path to him, putting the ball behind a defender and sending it exactly where Beric was rushing up to meet it. Jaime never stopped, still racing up the field, breaking free of the two defenders marking him, perfectly positioned when Beric pivoted to pass the ball back across.

He hadn’t quite realized how much he’d missed that familiar weight of the ball hitting his cleats as he took control of it once more and twisted his body towards the goal, needing only a split-second’s glance to find his target. Power surged through his newly-healed leg, his foot connecting with the ball again, his breath releasing in a whoosh as his eyes followed the ball’s arc through the air, watching as it whistled just past the tips of the goalkeeper’s outstretched fingers and slammed into the net behind. 

If the crowd had been loud before, the din that erupted after Jaime’s goal was near-deafening. He was dimly aware of another body colliding with his, Beric lifting him by the waist in a surge of adrenaline-fueled celebration as other Knights came flying towards them too, their hoarse shouts joining the rest of the cacophony. It wasn’t a game-winning goal; it wasn’t even a particularly difficult one. But for Jaime, none had never felt sweeter.

Two years. He’d been gone for nearly two years, and he hadn’t realized until that moment that he’d half-expected everyone to have given up on him, for the fans to have turned on him, hating him, writing him off as a has-been. Instead, here they were cheering for him in the thousands. They hadn’t abandoned him—they’d been waiting for him.

Brimming with more gratitude than he knew what to do with, Jaime felt his throat grow tight. He brought his palms together over his head and started clapping too, turning in a circle to face each side of the arena, acknowledging the crowd, thanking them for their support.

The rain had finished by the time the final whistle blared and night had fallen, the sky a deep navy beyond the reach of the stadium lights. The Capital Knights were the victors, and Jaime wasn’t sure he’d ever felt such a sense of invigoration after winning a regular-season match before. The hometown crowd was celebrating as if it had been a championship final, and he let the their jubilant sounds carry him through the claps on the back from his teammates, the “job well done” nod from Coach Selmy, the handshakes with the other team—all the way through his pitch-side interviews and the several minutes he spent signing soccer balls and T-shirts for an enthusiastic group of fans half-dangling over the first row barricade.

And when it was finally time to head back to the locker room his chest lurched anew, fresh emotion swelling within at the sight of Brienne waiting for him in the entrance to the player’s tunnel.

She was beaming, radiant, brighter even than the enormous floodlights illuminating the arena, elation etched into every broad line of her body. Jaime’s own face felt like it might split in two from how much he was grinning back, gesturing for her to come join him on the grass.

“Happen to see that sick goal I scored?” he called out nonchalantly, jerking his thumb back towards the net.

“Showoff.” Brienne rolled her eyes a little and bit her cheek, trying and failing to dampen down her smile as she came to a stop in front of him. Her pale eyelashes were stuck together in clumps from where the rain must have caught earlier.

His jersey was damp too, with rain and sweat and probably more than a little mud, but Brienne was looking at him so fondly, like she was trying not to say “I told you so”—like she loved him—and he thought fuck it and reached for her anyway. She didn’t resist in the slightest, her warm cheek pressed against his and her strong arms folding across his back, holding him tight. Whatever noise and excitement was still buzzing around them faded until the only sound in the world was Brienne’s low voice whispering “You did it, Jaime” against the shell of his ear.

He tucked his chin over her shoulder and sighed into her hair. “Was it enough, you think?”

“Enough for what?”

He shrugged, still a little uncertain.

Brienne tilted her head to look at him, her eyes full of sincerity. “Jaime, you were spectacular out there. I’m so proud of you.”

Hearing those words from her might have been even better than the goal itself.

He opened his mouth to speak again and found his voice caught behind a lump in his throat, noticing the redness rimmed around her eyes, the moisture welling inside their blue depths like the rising tide. Her lashes weren’t wet from the rain.

All he could do then was kiss her, grounding himself in the familiarity of her mouth on his, her sturdy waist under his hands, the scrape of her fingers curling into the damp tendrils of hair at the base of his neck, finally understanding what it meant to have someone believe in him the way she did. How ready he was to spend the rest of his days making sure she knew how much he believed in her, too.

“Thought we were trying not to do that in public?” she gasped when they broke apart.

“I had to.” Jaime couldn’t stop grinning. He tipped his chin towards the handful of reporters and fans still milling around the pitch, though his eyes remained firmly on her. “So what’s the protocol for PDA, should we take a bow, or…?”

“You are so annoying,” she groaned, covering her rapidly blushing face with a hand that didn’t quite muffle the snort of laughter that followed.

“I can try to blame it on post-match adrenaline if anyone asks.”

Brienne’s fingers fell to reveal a smile curving across her mouth, the one he knew she reserved only for him. Her eyes blazed as she shook her head.

“No,” she said softly, bringing her lips back to his. “Don’t you dare.”