Chapter Text
When Brienne’s alarm clock blared through her pleasantly hazy dreams, she seriously considered ripping out the cord and going back to bed. She could hear her dad padding around the kitchen, making breakfast to pretend he wasn’t hovering. The smell of his morning coffee had long since faded.
Margaery’s chipper farewell crept with the sunlight through the curtains. “Let me know if you’re running late,” she’d called as Brienne clambered from the car in a burst of bitter night air. “I’ll swing by and pick you up.”
It had probably sounded less threatening in Margaery’s head.
Brienne sat up, rubbing bleary eyes. Margaery and Loras had kept her out until well after midnight. Her head still pounded with the tension of making awkward small talk.
And, she admitted to herself, I was up half the night freaking out about Jaime.
Margaery’s promised text alerts had been no help at all. Sporadic updates like, ‘WEH’s star forward suffered minor head trauma,’ and, “Jaime Lannister moved from OR to recovery,” had done nothing for Brienne’s nerves. Margaery must have noticed, because she’d clicked off her phone after the fifth interruption in as many minutes.
“There’s no substitute for beauty sleep,” she’d said, ushering Brienne from the booth. “We want to be fresh and alert for our welcome brunch.”
The brunch was anything but welcome. Brienne had agreed to cotillion in the eleventh hour, and the disaster at the hockey game had only compounded her doubts. If it weren’t for the fact that Cersei was supposed to be there, Brienne might have skipped the brunch to do homework.
You aren’t going to approach her willingly, are you? her sense of self-preservation objected.
Brienne steeled herself and climbed out of bed. Downstairs, she found her dad tending the stove, humming an old tune as he flipped pancakes.
“Morning,” she mumbled, sliding onto the stool by the door.
She scraped a fleck of dried soup from the counter with her thumbnail, staining the skin beneath it a sickly yellow. Her dad had been in bed when she’d gotten home last night. She wondered how long he’d waited up for her.
“Morning,” he replied. He flipped something in the skillet and resumed his humming.
Brienne took a minute to glance around the kitchen and felt guilty for her reticence. Fluffy eggs were piled high on a piece of her mom’s old china, bacon lay in perfect strips on a crystal serving tray, and milk shimmered through beads of condensation in a glass pitcher she didn’t recognize.
Something thick and heavy lodged in her throat. She tried to dislodge it with a casual tone. “You know this is a brunch thing, right?”
He looked so pleased with his creation that she almost didn’t tell him, but her dad only shrugged. “You know you’ll be too nervous to eat.” He slid a plate in front of her.
He was right, of course. Even now, in the safety of their kitchen, the warm, golden pancakes looked flat and unappetizing. The eggs turned sour on her tongue.
She swallowed a mouthful and smiled as convincingly as she could. “You didn’t have to do all this,” she mumbled around the bits of dry food that clung to her tongue.
He brought her a bottle of water, which she gratefully gulped down.
“Neither did you,” he acknowledged.
Brienne looked away. She didn’t deserve his faith in her.
“I’ve gotta go,” she told him, scooting toward the door.
“One for the money.” He handed her a paper plate: bacon stacked on a piece of dry toast. “Two for the show.” He waited for her to balance the plate before handing her a tall glass of milk.
She knew the food would go stale on the front seat, but Brienne chugged the milk, ignoring her queasy stomach. Her dad had been soothing her with cold milk since she was five and she skinned her knee teaching herself to rollerblade. This morning the comfort was something she sorely needed.
“Thanks,” she said, letting the clink of the glass on the counter chip away some of her anxiety. “I’ll see you later.”
Cotillion events were traditionally held in the West Eros Country Club. Brienne had only been inside the clubhouse twice: last year when her dad had needed a date for a work party and in elementary school for a sports banquet. She’s spent both nights camped in the bathroom—which could hardly be called that since it included dressing alcoves and an informal sitting room.
The country club was much scarier in daylight. Everything dripped ivory and gold, walls lined with intricate décor that seemed altogether too fragile. There was an openness to the halls, too, airy sunlight catching shimmering motes that danced through the air.
Even the dust looked delicate.
It’ll be fine, Brienne told herself, peeking down corridors and into doorways as she tried to remember where the ballroom was. It took a bit of wandering before she heard the low babble of voices bleeding through the ivory wallpaper. One deep breath, and she pushed through a service door before she could psyche herself out.
She wished she’d taken a second to look first.
Or better yet, to think for half a second when she rolled out of bed that morning. Everyone in the room wore some sort of dress, structured fabric in cream or lilac or baby pink. Brienne had grabbed the first outfit in her closet: jeans, a t-shirt, and an oversized cardigan.
Underdressed, she thought bleakly. Of course. The sarcasm fell flat, even in her head.
She swallowed hard and forced her feet forward, veering far away from the smiling college girl handing out brochures. She shuffled awkwardly past a trio of inductees, but instead of pointing her in the right direction, they stifled giggles and went back to their conversation. They probably thought that she was manual labor, stacking chairs or something. It wouldn’t be the first time Brienne had been expected to move furniture at a social function.
But there were waiters, their trays laden with flaky pastries and fizzy drinks in champagne flutes. Waiters seemed safe enough. She was pretty sure they were paid not to laugh at her.
She was just about to ask one what exactly she was supposed to be doing when she spotted Cersei by the stage. The pretty cheerleader was speaking with an equally pretty woman who—judging from her easy poise on what should be deadly heels—had to be a cotillion coach.
Suck it up, Brienne told herself. It will only be worse later.
She willed her feet to move. They dragged at first, like her body wanted to convince her brain that she was walking into a disaster, but she refused to veer off her collision course. She wove around clusters of poised women and giggling debutantes, willing her breath steady.
It seemed like half the morning before she reached the stage, halting so abruptly she was sure Cersei would snicker. But Cersei and the woman ignored her, leaving Brienne to rock sideways on her heels, wondering how to breach the conversational wall.
Her heart fluttered erratically, pushing air through her veins. She wondered if she might pass out.
“Cersei,” she interrupted, her words as weak as her will.
The look Cersei turned on her was scathing. She flipped her hair over her shoulder and crossed her arms, stealing Brienne’s thunder. The way she cocked her hip was one part boredom, three parts ‘stop wasting my time.’
“H– hi,” Brienne recovered. “Um. I was just– How’s Jaime?”
Cersei sniffed, paying no mind to the sharp eyes of the cotillion coach. “Fine, considering you got his arm maimed for him.”
“Cersei,” the woman warned, but Cersei merely shrugged.
“Well, she did.”
The woman raised a meaningful, well-groomed eyebrow, but Cersei ignored the admonition.
“Our family portrait is ruined this year.” Her nose crinkled almost imperceptibly. “That cast is ungodly. And– ” her eyes widened, dark eyeliner dramatic against her golden skin, “– prom pictures.”
“He’ll look good anyway.”
Brienne almost couldn’t believe the words had come from her. They’d tumbled out of her mouth before they’d registered on her tongue.
For once, Cersei seemed to agree with her. Her center of gravity shifted, rocking her dangerously forward on her heels. Her eyes widened, all green, then narrowed until Brienne could barely see the color through her lashes.
“Cersei, Olenna has your notes for the introduction.”
Cersei didn’t move until a firm hand on her elbow nudged her forward. She straightened deliberately, rolled her eyes, and flounced off, making sure to glower at Brienne as she passed.
The woman’s eyes followed her until she disappeared behind a group of older women.
“I’m sorry. It’s been a stressful night for all of us.”
“You’re Jaime’s mom,” Brienne blurted. She felt stupid for not realizing it earlier.
Joanna Lannister turned cool green eyes on her, and Brienne blushed. The woman’s mouth quirked ever so slightly. “I suppose I am, for all the good it’s done him.”
“I just– ” Brienne wasn’t entirely sure how to respond to that. “How is he?”
Mrs. Lannister smiled; this time it touched the worry in her eyes. “The doctors say he’ll heal.”
Brienne opened her mouth to ask again, and the woman rolled her eyes.
“Twenty-seven sutures and a comminuted fracture. They inserted a metal rod to hold the pieces together. The procedure took nearly three hours.” She paused, and for a moment her eyes were distant.
Brienne hissed a breath through her teeth, wincing for Jaime, for the horror his mother had faced.
Mrs. Lannister must have heard, because she was back, as unruffled as ever. “Oh, and a mild concussion.”
“He’s out for the season?” Brienne asked, praying for all she was worth.
“At least,” his mom corrected crisply. “As I’ve already informed your coach.”
“But – the scouts.” She bit her lip, feeling helpless. “How’s he going to get signed?”
If any of them had the skills to play pro, it was Jaime. And he wanted it.
Joanna Lannister looked at her, the green of her eyes shifting and deepening until Brienne could imagine they belonged to her son. “You’re the only one who’s asked me that.”
Brienne tried to still her quickening heart, wondering how anyone could avoid asking that.
Is that not an okay thing to say?
“Sorry,” she mumbled.
Joanna studied her for a long moment, like she was some strange creature that escaped classification. Brienne shifted uncomfortably.
“Regardless.” The woman drove away the silence with one wave of her manicured hand. “Jaime’s tough. He’ll handle it.”
“Of course,” Brienne said softly.
But how?
She couldn’t find an answer.
Joanna pressed her lips, giving Brienne another once-over. Then she snapped her fingers and held out her hand.
Brienne blinked at her. She wondered for a brief second if she’d forgotten something else for the brunch, apart from the dress and heels and nice hair. The woman waited for her to figure it out, hand extended while Brienne scrubbed sweaty palms down the rough fabric of her jeans. Her fingers caught on a familiar, bulky rectangle in her front pocket.
She fished her phone free, checking with Mrs. Lannister for confirmation before cautiously handing it over.
“Here’s his number.” Manicured fingers moved deliberately across the keyboard. “He says you took a few punches for him; perhaps you’re woman enough to talk him out of this mood.”
The device felt heavy when she placed it in Brienne’s hand. She stared at it instead of slipping it back into her pocket. Her contact list was basically empty: Arya and Loras, Renly and Coach Selmy, her dad and a few emergency contacts. It wasn’t like she spent much time on the phone.
And now she had Jaime’s number, gift wrapped by his mother. It seemed a bit surreal.
Mrs. Lannister, it seemed, had nothing more to say. Brienne rarely had much to say, and her words had disappeared entirely. Together they created an awkward picture until Margaery swept through the tension with a well-placed smile.
“Mrs. Lannister, hello” she greeted smoothly, falling into place beside Brienne. “It means so much to us that you’re here. I know this is a difficult time for your family.”
“We’ll survive.” Joanna smiled politely, but she spoke with unassailable conviction. “We are Lannisters, after all.”
“Of course,” Margaery agreed with all the easy conversation Brienne lacked. “Your son isn’t West Eros High’s toughest player for nothing.”
That was a patent lie. Brienne was stronger, no matter how much Jaime rolled his eyes when she told him so. And to imagine anyone tougher than Sandor or Gregor Clegane was to dream up the stuff of nightmares.
Mrs. Lannister accepted the kind fabrication with a nod, excusing herself to the Junior League table. Margaery wasted no time in linking her arm through Brienne’s and weaving them through the empty tables.
“Mel and I switched your place card with Jane Westerling’s. You’re with us.”
She deposited Brienne next to Mel, who wore the only bit of color Brienne had seen all morning.
“Nice dress,” Brienne mumbled, mustering a small smile. She felt out of place despite the elegantly folded placard that announced Brienne Tarth in flowing gold script.
“Pastels are the worst.” Mel looked at Margaery and shrugged, making it clear she meant the comment as a self-commentary. “Red’s a statement color.”
She leaned around the table, taking in Brienne’s appearance. Brienne braced herself for the inevitable.
“Cool tee. I love Imagine Dragons.”
Brienne knocked into her water glass, sloshing half its contents onto the lace tablecloth. Mel and Margaery pretended not to notice.
“Thanks.” Brienne sopped up the spill with her napkin, trying to work moisture back into her mouth. In her peripherals she could see dozens of delicate party dresses drifting in and out of the thin sunlight from the large bay windows. “I – uh – didn’t realize this was a dress-up thing.”
“They’re all dress-up things.” Margaery laughed, but not at her. “If I ever saw my grandmother in pants I’d cross myself.”
Mel nodded sagely. When it became clear that Brienne was totally lost, she explained, “Grammy Olenna’s le président de la cotillon.”
“She owns these things.” Margaery rolled her eyes affectionately.
“Oh.” Brienne wasn’t sure what else to say. “Okay.”
“We’ll talk you through it,” Margaery assured as the microphone crackled, pulling their eyes toward the stage.
Cersei Lannister stood in a cream and gold gown that—with the lights and the stage and the flawless smile—made her look like an actual angel, no joke.
She waited for everyone to settle in their seats, looking down at the crowd like the prom queen she was. “Ladies,” she greeted, once she’d commanded the undivided attention of the room. “Thank you for being here. Each of you– ” Brienne could have sworn those cutting green eyes pierced her, driving home Cersei’s next words, “– are unrefined and untaught.” Cersei’s eyes moved away to scan the room, searching for someone worthy of her attention. “But four months from now you will be intelligent, poised young ladies with the world at your feet.
“It is a difficult journey, but those are often the most rewarding. The accomplishments of the former debutantes in this room,” she smiled at the women seated by the bar, “are truly inspiring.” She emphasized her words with a hand to her heart. “I know I could never have accomplished such incredible personal success without their thoughtful guidance. Please join me in welcoming our Cotillion Director, Mrs. Catelyn Stark.”
Margaery read Brienne’s confusion. “Oh, Grandmother never speaks at welcome brunches.”
“It’s all up to the loyal underlings.” Mel grinned, tipping back an orange, fluted drink as Cersei exchanged pleasantries with Mrs. Stark onstage.
“I didn’t know Mrs. Stark was the director,” Brienne admitted.
“She’s scary skilled at networking,” Margaery whispered as Mrs. Stark began her welcome speech.
Cotillion, besides teaching dancing and deportment, apparently required a never-ending stream of lessons that would help Brienne become “a well-rounded woman.” Among them were interviewing, positive self-esteem, and academic achievement. Brienne found herself thinking that dance lessons might actually suck less than the rest of cotillion.
“And so, on behalf of the West Eros Country Club, Junior League, and the National Cotillion League, welcome to our home.” She said the last bit with a teasing smile, gesturing the tables and tasteful decorations of the converted ballroom. Caterers arrived as if on cue, doling out platters until each table was laden with brunch delicacies that put Brienne’s breakfast to shame.
There’s no way these girls eat food like that, Brienne thought, watching waiters stack plates onto tiered frames around their centerpiece. She looked down at her wide hips, supporting well-muscled abs and a small roll of fat.
The bulky shape in her jeans pocket caught her attention, distracting her from a spiral of self-doubt. Her fingers itched, digging into her pocket of their own accord to tug out her phone. She hid her phone beneath a dip in the tablecloth, tilting her palm so only she could see the screen. She couldn’t quite believe she’d really do it, but her fingers were already scrolling. Her heart was in her chest as she found Jaime Lannister in her contacts list.
I bet you’re having more fun than me.
She clutched her phone under the table. Her palms grew sweaty as she pretended to listen to Margaery and Mel dish about girls she didn’t know making their debut at last year’s ball. It seemed like forever before her phone buzzed lightly in her fist.
I’m half-doped on painkillers, listening to Tyrion investigate legal recourse for hockey injuries.
She smiled in relief, typed back: I’m at cotillion.
She hit send. Held her breath.
Jaime’s text came through before her finger moved from the green button.
You win.
