Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Jon shields his eyes against the midmorning sun as he looks up the steps of King’s Landing Prep. The school looms above him, a monolith representing all the wealth, prestige, and power he’s never known, but apparently been entitled to his entire life. Jon has always known himself as an orphan, and he’d been lucky enough to be fostered by a (mostly) loving couple—Ned Stark and his disapproving wife, Catelyn. But six months ago, he’d been contacted by his birth family.

Jon’s father had been Rhaegar Targaryen, the heir to the Targaryen political family and recently passed. Rhaegar, famously married to Elia Martell, the daughter of the Dornish diplomat to Westeros. But Rhaegar had fallen in love with Ned’s sister, Lyanna, and annulled his marriage to Elia and eloped with Lyanna in the same night. Elia, in her grief, had driven off in the middle of the night and hit a stag crossing the road, throwing her from the car and killing her instantly. Rhaegar and Lyanna, ignorant, had hidden themselves away from the world and conceived Jon. Had Lyanna not died in childbirth nine months later, things might have been different.

Instead, the two families conspired to hide the scandal and Rhaegar agreed to give Jon, the single reminder of the life he could have had, to the Starks, to be raised with his short-lived wife’s family. Jon supposes he might have lived in ignorance forever if Rhaegar hadn’t died from an aneurysm, and Jon hadn’t become the last scion of the Targaryen family in the process.

So he’d been taken from the Starks and delivered to King’s Landing, to be raised as the official Targaryen heir, with all the trimmings that come along with the title. Jon’s entire life has been upended right before his eyes, and now he has to suffer the greatest indignity of all: high school.

The halls loom large over him, graceful arches and white stone. King’s Landing Prep is where the nation’s elite children go, and Jon’s still not quite sure what he’s doing there with the rest of them. He feels awkward and gangly, all dark hair and wire-rimmed glasses surrounded by well-dressed and perfectly coiffed teens. They all look like they’re in their early twenties, and at sixteen, he thinks he might still look twelve.

He’s trying to find his way to the guidance counselor’s office to pick up his class schedule when he sees her.

She’s… she’s beautiful, all long glossy red hair and sweet blue eyes as she strides down the hallway. She’s almost as tall as he is, willowy and graceful, and he thinks he sees a hint of sadness on her face before another girl joins her and the shadow is gone so fast he’s not even sure it was there in the first place.

The bell rings, he blinks, and she’s gone.

He shakes his head, dazed, and stumbles into the guidance counselor’s office. Maybe this move won’t be as bad as he thought.

Mrs. Tyrell is… not what Jon expected, to say the least. She’s at least 80 and stares at him from across her ornate desk, polished mahogany inlaid with impossibly delicate carved roses and mother-of-pearl. Her eyes are, quite frankly, terrifying. They’re bright with barely contained mischief and an interest that makes Jon feel like prey.

He knows of the Tyrell family, knows that Olenna is their legendary matriarch, and that her grandchildren Margaery and Loras attend King’s Landing Prep as well. His best friend back home, Sam, had done his research on the who’s who of Westerosi elite. It had been his parting gift- a survival guide, of sorts. What he doesn’t know is why she’s working here when she could be retired, living out the rest of her life on some tropical island somewhere.

“My memoirs, darling.”

Jon flushes- had he spoken aloud?

Olenna holds up a hand and types out the rest of a sentence with the other, hits what he assumes must be the save key, and then turns the monitor away from her, refocusing her attention on Jon.

“Sorry, I just can’t seem to keep my eyes off of them. Now, let’s get you settled.”

Olenna reaches into her desk and pulls out a manila folder, flipping through it with a raised brow.

“You’re a couple years younger than my grandchildren, though it looks like you’ll have study hall with the seniors. You’re enrolled in all the right classes, of course, and if you’re smart you’ll meet all the right people.”

She drops the folder onto the desk with a decisive clap. Jon jumps, and Olenna smirks at him.

“Ned and Cat didn’t tell prepare you for this, did they?”

“No, ma’am,” Jon stammers out. “That is, Ned was good to me and Mrs. Stark-“

“Don’t ma’am me, boy, or I’ll bury you in academic mediocrity for the next two years.”

Jon gulps, but Olenna doesn’t look angry. She just looks amused. That scares Jon more than anything.

“No, I imagine they never thought this would happen, and you’d never be acknowledged as a Targaryen. I imagine Ned thought to save you from this world. The issue at hand is…”

A slow, curling smile spreads over her face.

“Who to help you navigate it now?”

Tyrion Lannister is not what Jon expected.

Of course, Sam had explained that the third and youngest Lannister sibling was a dwarf, and an outcast in his own family. That, at least, Jon can relate to. But as Jon stares into Tyrion’s mismatched eyes, sarcastic and confident and clearly hyper intelligent, he knows without a doubt that nothing he’s heard will measure up to the man in front of him. Er, so to speak.

Jon thrusts his hand out.

“I’m Jon Snow.”

Tyrion looks from Jon’s hand to his face, as if trying to glean something from the gesture. Just as Jon’s about to pull it back from embarrassment, Tyrion clasps it briefly, firmly.

“Not Jon Targaryen?”

Jon cringes.

“Please don’t call me that.”

Tyrion gives him a strange look and nods, motioning for Jon to follow him down the hall.

Without waiting for Jon to catch up, he starts talking.

“Most people would play that up immediately, you know. That’s your first wrong move. The second would be to be seen with me again after today.”

“But Mrs. Tyrell assigned you to show me around the school,” Jon blurts out.

Tyrion waves a hand dismissively.

“Olenna just likes to stir things up. She gets a kick out of putting people in uncomfortable situations and seeing what they do. Keep in mind, it’s absolutely a test. But whatever you choose to do, she won’t force you to follow me around.”

Jon stops in his tracks, hoisting his backpack higher on his shoulders and waiting until Tyrion notices he’s not walking anymore, and turns back to face him.

“I’m good, thanks. I’ll stick with you.”

Surprise flits over Tyrion’s face for a moment before it’s gone. He nods, casual.

“Okay. Let me show you the menagerie.”

Students swarm on every side, a rising tide threatening to overtake Jon at any moment. Tyrion weaves in and out with ease, talking all the while, pointing out landmarks (“Pycelle’s class is over there—in terms of science teachers, it’s him or Qyburn and Qyburn at least will make sure you’re ready for exams, but you won’t sleep all semester.”) and notable students.

Jon cranes his neck, hoping to see the girl from earlier, but there’s so much going on that it’s all he can do not to just blink stupidly at the sun when he inexplicably finds himself in the middle of a courtyard. It’s like looking at a brochure, he thinks, because everyone is so beautiful and they’re all lounging just so against the Corinthian columns. A fountain burbles in the middle of the courtyard and everyone seems to be holding food but nobody seems to be eating.

Tyrion has stopped talking and is gazing at Jon now, expectantly.

“Who are all these people?” He asks.

“Westeros’ future leaders,” Tyrion answers with a cheery grimace.

He nudges Jon to follow as they circle the fountain.

A chorus of yells goes up from across the courtyard and Jon nearly jumps. He looks up to see six crew oars thrust up towards the sky, clacking together as the six people hoisting them begin chanting, moving as one down toward the quad.

“Greyjoys,” Tyrion shakes his head dismissively at Jon’s gaping look. “They’re unhinged, all of them. They think the Greyjoy ancestral home is basically Atlantis. They don’t realize that nobody cares about crew. It’s a step up from tennis because you have to be really rich to waste your money on it.”

“What about them?” Jon points to the fey-like beauties, male and female, lounging on the edge of the fountain itself. Each one has chestnut curls and high cheeks, but they look, well, nice, and Jon is pretty sure that as far as currency goes, nice doesn’t get you very far at King’s Landing Prep.

Tyrion opens his mouth to answer when one of them laughs, a girl of about seventeen, who seems regal without appearing imperious.

“That’s Margaery Tyrell. She does Model U.N. and student government with the rest of her family. They’re a lot like my family,” Tyrion answers, and Jon looks over, surprised. “We’re both wealthy and desperate for power. But everyone likes them.”

Jon can’t tell if the ambivalence in Tyrion’s voice is tinged with bitterness or not, but he files it away to ponder later. Tyrion is not like the rest of his family, he’s heard, but so far he only has stories to compare him to. He’s sure he’ll meet the twins eventually, however. As big as the school is, no institution is that large.

Tyrion looks ready to launch into another explanation about King’s Landings’ social groups when Jon’s stomach, audible even over the ambient noise of lunching teenagers, gives an awful lurch and growl. Tyrion, who is just about level with it, gets the full effect.

He blinks once, twice, and guffaws loudly, slapping Jon on the thigh.

“The one good thing this school can offer is an edible meal, and at least they deliver on that.” He motions for Jon to follow him, and they head towards a smaller building.

As the two of them walk in, the doors open to let two girls out, and time stops.

It’s her, it’s the girl of his fantasies, the auburn-haired siren of his half-waking dreams—she’s even more beautiful with the sun warming those alabaster cheeks, little freckles dancing on a dainty nose—

It takes a moment for Jon to realize he’s on the ground. He thinks it’s strange that he’s looking up at Tyrion, that his nose smarts and his eyes are watering.

“What happened?”

Tyrion is poorly concealing his laughter, patting Jon on the shoulder awkwardly.

“You took one look at Sansa Tarth and walked straight into a glass door.”

Jon nods slowly, wincing when the world doesn’t quite focus around him.

“Is that her name? Sansa Tarth?” He leans his head back towards the sun and smiles goofily. “Sansa. Sansa.”

There’s a looking spreading over Tyrion’s face and it’s a moment before Jon recognizes it. Pity.

“Don’t even start.”

“Why not?” Jon protests at the ironclad tone of his voice.

“She’s beyond you. Tarth isn’t a desirable enough family for the new Targaryen heir. And she’s mixed up with the wrong people.”

Jon tilts his head to the side, confused.

Tyrion points to where Sansa is still visible, walking farther away now.

“See the girl with her?”

Jon hadn’t looked before, but he does now. Next to Sansa is another girl, tall and blonde and commanding where Sansa looks meek. The other girl puts a possessive head on Sansa’s arm and leans over to whisper in her ear. Whatever she says, it has Sansa pressing a hand to her mouth, smothering startled laughter. Jon isn’t sure, but he thinks she looks guilty, too, for laughing or for what she was laughing at.

“My sister,” Tyrion says derisively. “She only started hanging around Sansa this year. Whatever plans she has for her, it’s best to steer clear.”

“She didn’t tell you?”

Tyrion snorts. “Cersei doesn’t speak to me unless she has to. I think she’d prefer if I were shipped off to boarding school in the north while she and Jaime enjoyed the southern sun.”

So this is his first impression of Cersei Lannister. It doesn’t bode well for her twin, who he’s heard is always on her arm, but he isn’t here now, and Tyrion doesn’t volunteer any information about him.

“Don’t you want to help her, though? If you know Cersei doesn’t have good intentions…”

Tyrion frowns, staring after the two girls.

“I don’t find that I usually want to meddle in my sister’s affairs. It hasn’t turned out that well for me in the past.”

His eyes look distant and Jon regrets putting that look on his face.

“I’d do anything for Sansa,” he says instead, and it’s no lie to put a mooning expression on his face. “I’d fight off a dragon, I’d betray my country—”

“Calm down, this is just high school.” Tyrion’s looking at Jon now, half amused, half appraising. “Besides, even if you could get past Cersei and convince Sansa to waste her time on you, you’d just end up getting fed to a bear by her father. The Tarth sisters aren’t allowed to date.”

He shrugs, abrupt, like there’s nothing more to be said about it.

“Come on,” Jon laughs. “No dad is that strict.”

Tyrion just shakes his head.

“You don’t know the half of it. Last guy who tried to go behind Selwyn Tarth’s back and throw rocks at Sansa’s window ended up in public school.”

“That’s not that ba—”

“In Essos. Legend has it he’s too afraid to step foot in the country again. His father remarried and had another son just so he could replace him as heir. Nobody’s seen Ramsay Bolton in years.”

Jon shudders.

“So she can’t date?”

“Nope. The Tarth sisters might as well be nuns, for all you can do.”
Jon sighs, wistful.

“She has a sister?”

Tyrion snorts, nods.

“If that’s Sansa, I can’t imagine what her sister looks like…”

At his side, Tyrion barks out a surprised laugh, failing to cover it with a cough and igniting a fit so severe there are tears streaming from his eyes by the time he’s recovered.

Jon makes a questioning noise, but Tyrion waves him off, still chuckling to himself.

“You’ll see,” Tyrion wipes his eyes, finally leading Jon into the cafeteria. “You’ll see.”

Chapter Text

The clock ticks closer and closer to the end of the period. Brienne Tarth sits in the back of the class, where she's more comfortable and still so, so visible as the tallest girl at King's Landing Prep. She's almost taller than all the boys, too. So at the beginning of every school year, she gets to class early and claims her favorite seat: last row, and all the way to the right or left depending on which side of the room the window is on. That way, she's protected on all sides, and if anyone wants to make a nasty comment or shoot a look her way, they have to turn all the way around to do it, and most of them lose their nerve when they see her face.

Brienne Tarth knows her face is a conversation stopper. Or starter, depending on how cruel the other person wants to be. She's never been beautiful, or, quite frankly, even decent looking. She has her father's build and her father's face as well: ruddy, mouth too wide and lips too big. Her teeth are crooked and so is her nose, though there's debate that the second time she broke her nose, it actually ended up looking a little better. She has no curves to speak of, and her body is only made more masculine through years of soccer.

When she's able to divorce her own feelings about her body from everyone else's opinions, she can almost like it a little bit. At the very least, it does its job. She's powerful, she's strong, and there's not a single player in the entire division who can get a soccer ball past her. She's doing alright. It's not fair that women have to work twice as hard for less than half the respect, that she's judged on her looks first and foremost and not all the other things that she's worked so hard to be proud of herself for.

But she's lived her entire life as the butt of everyone else's jokes, and so she'd leaned into it a bit. It seemed like the easiest way to protect herself. Nobody could ever hurt her again, she thought, if she pushed them all away first. Maybe less men would taunt her if she was bigger and scarier than they were. Maybe the girls would leave her alone if she showed that she didn't care about the same things they did, that she didn't want to wear the clothes or the makeup or date the boys, that they'd let her be.

It's worked. For the most part.

Maybe if Brienne hadn't been born to privilege and wealth (and yes, she's aware of how much nobody should feel sorry for her for that), maybe if she wasn't forced to go to school with the nation's future leaders, if she wasn't in an environment that prized image above all else, she might have been a little bit happier. Maybe her mother wouldn't have died giving birth to Sansa, maybe she would have learned to have confidence in herself, maybe she would have been taught self-worth and self-love. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

As it stands, Brienne is on the precipice of her senior year of high school. She's worked hard to make all the right choices, to study hard and play even harder, and she's so close to making captain of the varsity soccer team. Soccer scouts are interested in her. She's so close to university, a world where she can make her own place without being reminded of every second of humiliation she's ever been forced to endure. She's just… lonely. She's always been lonely.

The bell rings, jolting her out of her self-pity. She shakes her head, laughing at herself for getting caught in that train of thought. She has friends—well, she has one really good friend, a wonderful sister, and a father who loves her dearly, even if he has an aversion to emotional intimacy stemming from the death of Brienne's mother that they've never been able to bridge. So she'll be alright. This year can't be any different from the ones that came before.

Brienne slowly packs up her notes and books, waiting for the room to clear before she leaves. With her bulk, she'd have no problem shoving past everyone in her haste to get out, but she lets them go. She prefers when the world has its back to her. Then—

"I could have sworn it was a beautiful day outside. Then I saw you."

Brienne looks up and freezes. Her primary motivation for letting everyone leave before her has waited. Hyle Hunt stands before her, handsome, popular, well-liked. He's from a minor family and he's not that smart, which Brienne assumes is the reason for the desperate overcompensation. He knows exactly who to turn the charm on for, exactly who to bully, and how to crack into their deepest insecurities.

He's right in front of her, stopping her from being able to stand up. She's suddenly furious and burning with shame that Hyle can still do this to her, can make her feel like a meek twelve-year-old when she actually has about three inches on him. Brienne can't help but let her eyes flick to the front of the classroom, where their ancient homeroom teacher, Mr. Arryn, sits oblivious, and of course Hyle catches it.

"Can't fight your own battles, beauty?"

Brienne's lips thin.

"I don't need the teacher's help to kick your ass, Hunt." She says, all false bravado, but there's a real threat behind her words. She may be an easy emotional target, but Brienne once kicked Hyle in the balls and she's been desperate to do it at least once more before she graduates and never has to see him again.

"You know, some people might be flattered that I pay so much attention to them." He says, leaning on her desk in a mockery of a seduction. "You didn't mind it so much, once."

His tone is flippant and it hits right where it's meant to.

Brienne's blood goes cold and she shoves herself back from the desk to stand, unbalancing Hyle and nearly making him topple over.

He regains his footing and shoots her a venomous look.

"Be careful, bitch."

Brienne just squares her shoulders, takes advantage of her solid frame to look impenetrable.

"Bother me again before we graduate and I swear I'll make sure you have nothing to offer any college… or girl ever again."

Hyle's eyes widen for a moment before he grins, slow and predatory.

"Sure, beauty. There are other people that might be more…receptive."

Brienne's not sure what he means by that, but she's not giving him another second of her time. Gathering her courage, she knocks him in the shoulder as she pushes past him, not looking back but smiling to herself when she hears Hyle's surprised exclamation.

If he's not going to bother her, she's happy.

Students swarm around Brienne as she makes her way towards the locker rooms by the gymnasium. They part before her easily, hardly even glancing at her as they get out of her way. It's a strange combination of practiced disinterest and entirely aware avoidance. Brienne is used to it. The ones who don't bully her are scared of her, and she's found out the hard way that it's just easier to live under the radar. As under the radar as a giant of a girl like her can be.

She's on her way to soccer practice when a voice calls out to her.

"Brienne!"

She stops in her tracks, a genuine smile on her face.

Margaery Tyrell, of the legendary Tyrell family, is effortlessly beautiful. She's brilliant, a favorite of teachers and students alike, and somehow, miraculously, she is Brienne's best friend.

Brienne lets Margaery catch up with her, and they link arms as they continue down the hallway. Brienne never feels more conspicuous than when she's next to Margaery, yet she also knows she's never safer. Nobody will dare say a word to her when Margaery is there, and Brienne feels a little ashamed of how grateful she is for it.

"Are we on for after practice?"

Brienne nods.

"My place or yours?"

Margaery's nose wrinkles as she thinks.

"Why don't we go out? Loras was telling me about this new all-ages place, it's supposed to be super fun!" She asks, brightening, as if the idea has just occurred to her. For someone so good at scheming, Margaery is entirely transparent when it comes to Brienne. She's always trying to get Brienne out of her shell. While Brienne prefers to hang out in the comfort of their respective homes, Margaery loves to go out. She's social, and Brienne loves her for how much she's willing to play along with Brienne's insecurities.

Still…

"I don't know," Brienne says doubtfully, the encounter with Hyle still fresh in her mind. He'll be there, she's sure, and she's not ready to face him just yet.

Margaery huffs good-naturedly.

"Come on, B! It's Friday night! Great music, good vibes… it'll be nice to get out for a bit. It's our senior year!"

"When was the last time you ever saw me dance?"

Margaery opens her mouth to respond but Brienne cuts her off.

"In public."

Her mouth closes abruptly.

"Okay, never, but—"

Brienne shakes her head definitively, feeling apologetic but not enough to open herself up to the potential embarrassment.

"You can go if you want," she hedges. "I just… don't feel up to it today, okay?"

The misery on her face must show, because Margaery's expression sobers.

"Okay, B. Just us tonight. We can marathon disaster movies and carbo-load."

Brienne shakes her head fondly. Margaery's love of disasters and drama is legendary, and extends past fiction.

"I can't carbo-load, the season just started."

Margaery shoves Brienne.

"Live a little! You'll just run it all off at six am the next morning anyway."

She's not wrong.

"Okay, okay! We can order pizza."

Margaery does a little victory skip and hops up to press a smacking kiss to Brienne's cheek just as they reach the locker rooms.

"Pick you up after practice?"

"Sounds good."

With that, Margaery flits off to her Model UN meeting, three buildings away. Brienne can't help but wonder at Margaery's easy audacity. She never seems to worry about anything, about how people will react to her. It's natural, whereas Brienne works hard to maintain even the thinnest façade of not giving a shit. She tries not to be jealous, knows that Margaery doesn't have a nasty bone in her body and she's never been anything but genuine to Brienne.

Jealousy is beneath her, she tells herself. Still, it smolders, tucked away right next to her insecurity.

.

Despite years of soccer to desensitize her, entering the locker room still sends a chill down Brienne's spine.

She's perfected the art of changing fast, of keeping her eyes down and her body tucked in so as to attract the least amount of attention possible. She used to change in the stalls, but once she'd been barricaded in as particularly nasty prank, and the other girls on the team had told the coach she was sick, so she'd been stuck there for hours, panicked and crying, before Margaery had finally found her, eyes blazing and out for revenge.

Only Brienne's blotchy face and ashamed, uncontrollable tears had swayed her, but she knows that Margaery must have done something, because she'd never been targeted like that again. She'd also never given them the opportunity.

Now, Brienne changes in her dark little corner and ignores the sneers and comments of her teammates.

In another world, Brienne may have been appreciated, at least a little bit, for her talents on the team. There's a reason she's one of the two frontrunners for captain, despite her lack of popularity.

In this world, however, there exists Cersei Lannister.

Cersei is the other frontrunner for captain, and, aside from Hyle, her greatest tormentor.

Cersei Lannister is everything Brienne will never be. She's a forward, flashy and savage and vicious. Whereas Brienne is the iron wall that defends their goal, Cersei is the face of the team. She takes no prisoners, moving across the field with ease, her long blonde hair always streaming behind her (and god, isn't it like a Lannister to not even need to tie her hair out of her face while playing like a normal person). She hones in on the ball like a target, and she's mastered the art of fouling without ever being called out by the ref. Whether that's honest skill or favoritism, Brienne doesn't really know, but she can't deny Cersei's talent.

If Brienne can get there early enough, she can change into her uniform and be on the field in less than five minutes. When she gets there later though, like today, she feels as slow as a cow.

Her fear keeps her clumsy, struggling to slip off her old shirt and slip on her jersey in one fluid motion. She glances up every few seconds to make sure nobody is looking, and almost trips while pulling up her shorts.

She gets through the kit, then sits to strap on her shin guards with a little less haste. Long socks stretch over her solid calves, and worn cleats are laced tightly over her feet.

She stands, mask nearly in place, when the girls next to her burst into high titters, and Brienne jumps as she slams her locker closed too loudly by accident. The girls—led by Cersei's right-hand, Taena Merryweather, laugh even harder.

Head pointed resolutely at the ground, Brienne marches out onto the field, desperate to let off some steam. She needs to knock some heads today.

The field is bright and sunny, surrounded on all sides by sweeping tiered seating. Their stadium is affectionately known as the Red Keep—their crimson kits swarm the field when they play, working as a team to push through the enemy's defenses, to tirelessly guard their goal, to kick and run and kill.

Brienne feels free out here. She feels like she can do anything. She is impenetrable.

A sharp whistle catches her attention and she and her teammates circle their coach.

Cersei is nowhere to be seen yet, and Brienne stands a little taller.

Their coach, Goodwin, is a good man and doesn't tolerate any games beyond the one played on the field.

"Alright girls," he calls out. "Dacey is out today, so Brienne, I want you in the goal."

Dacey Mormont is their usual goalkeeper. She and Brienne get along well, and Dacey often teases her about never letting Dacey get any play.

Brienne hops up on the balls of her feet a little, excitement tingling. She likes mindless drills like these, when everything hones down to a single, absolute task. She's forced to stay in the moment, let instinct take over.

Goodwin claps his hands together and Brienne jogs to the goal, getting her blood flowing. Her teammates line up, each taking their turn at running up to the ball and trying to get it past Brienne.

She's not the best goalie, but she's decent, and she lets far fewer balls through than not. She knocks balls aside with ease, sometimes challenging herself to knock it out with her head. She gets a sort of vicious satisfaction from it, and idly daydreams about headbutting Hyle Hunt. Someday.

Her concentration is broken for a moment when she sees Cersei in her periphery, hair wild behind her as she tears toward the line from the locker room across the green. She fits in seamlessly, and charges the ball, seeming to aim not past Brienne, but at her.

Her fears are proven true when Brienne has to throw up her arms in front of her chest, taking the brunt of the hit rather than deflecting it to the side. She sees red—in a manner of speaking.

Before she can charge Cersei, Goodwin blows his whistle, sharply, a reprimand.

"Lannister!"

Cersei tosses her hair across her shoulder, sniffing impatiently. As Brienne gets closer, she can see that Cersei's eyes are red, though. She seems upset, but she shrugs like she's unconcerned.

"I thought Brienne could use a challenge. I guess she's not the brick wall she looks like."

Any curiosity or sympathy Cersei's plight might have sparked vanishes in an instant.

"How about you charge me and we find out?"

"Tarth, Lannister—don't forget that there's a third choice for captain: neither of you."

That sobers them up fast.

Brienne uses the full advantage of her height to tower over Cersei and glare at her, while Cersei just scoffs, letting Taena, Melara Hetherspoon, and the other girls swarm around her in support.

"I want both of you running laps until you can't breathe, let alone say a word to each other." Goodwin's voice brooks no argument, and even Cersei has enough sense to just shoulder through their team, heading for the outside track without another glance.

Brienne takes a deep breath and follows, putting on a burst of speed to catch up to Cersei.

"Hey!" She calls out, and Cersei slows, just a little.

"I don't know what your deal is, but I don't want to screw up my chance at becoming captain because you can't play fair."

Cersei stops dead in her tracks, throwing her head back and cackling. It sounds a little wild.

"You really think that's the reason why you won't make captain?" She asks, shooting Brienne a venomous look. "You're not going to make captain because you don't have what it takes. You think you can stick your nose in the air and look down at all of us, because what? Because you're smart and hardworking and ugly? You think that makes you better than us?"

"I—"

"No," Cersei snarls, and Brienne takes a tiny step back. "It just makes you boring. I'm going to make captain because I want it. I deserve it, and I'm willing to do whatever it takes. Even if it means getting my hands dirty."

"That's not right," Brienne protests, but her voice wavers.

"Right doesn't matter when you win. Poor, pathetic Brienne. Being good doesn't win you any friends. As you clearly know. I fight for what I want. That's right."

They stand there, just staring at each other.

Cersei's chest is heaving, and whatever had left her teary and upset earlier is gone in the face of her fury. Brienne hates that she's right. Having the moral high ground doesn't stop Cersei from hammering through the cracks in her armor. It doesn't make her feel any better about her life.

Still, it's all she has.

So instead of saying another word to Cersei, she does what she can: she runs.