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.