Archive of Our Own

A year ago—in a building much smaller, much older, and much more familiar than this one—Brienne would have walked assuredly through the lobby, greeting the person at the reception desk with a smile, before heading upstairs to her destination. She wouldn’t have felt self-conscious about the fact that she was at her place of work for reasons other than work; she wouldn’t have been doing as she is doing now, donning a needlessly warm knee-length coat to hide her distinctly unprofessional outfit. Back in that building, people would have known what she was there for anyway—particularly if she was alone, without any of the girls in sight. Here, though, she would have to explain her presence to anyone who cared enough to ask. It isn’t likely that anyone would, but something about the place puts her on the defensive. Feels like enemy territory, even now. Makes her want to armour herself with needlessly warm knee-length coats.

A normal person who works a normal five-day week would likely baulk at the idea of going into the office on a weekend evening. But Brienne is not a normal person who works a normal five-day week—that she even has a weekend to speak of is rare enough, much less a full two weeks off—and she does not work in a normal office. In fact, so much of her work occurs outside of her company’s physical location that it doesn’t really feel like her office at all. Still, there are many other people who work normal five-day weeks in the Lannister Group’s fifty-storey-high office tower, so it does tend to be quieter on the weekends. There are the fans and curious tourists, of course—there are always the fans and curious tourists—but they’re usually fascinated by the lobby’s giant screens looping promotional animations or clips from music videos. That, or the gift shop filled with albums and exclusive merchandise. Or the cafe that serves drinks with cup sleeves featuring whoever is releasing their music this month.

(There’s the door that leads to the memorial garden too; the one dedicated to Aerys Targaryen. The original idol (A solo performer or a member of a group who goes through intensive training under entertainment agencies in order to sing, dance, model, and even act; idols are also expected to build close relationships with their fans), the undisputed King, whose music and style had been so iconic they called everything that came after him K-pop. His fans still visit this garden to leave flowers and messages at his statue.

Now that she knows what she knows about Aerys’s death, Brienne doesn’t like to think about that place anymore.)

Lannister Entertainment is good at this part—the giant screens and the gift shops and the cafes and the memorial gardens. One shouldn’t expect anything less from the biggest entertainment agency in Westeros, who’d defined the nation’s pop music for almost three decades. A year ago, Brienne had been working in a building that didn’t have any of these things. The fans and curious tourists could only snap photographs of its facade; maybe if they were lucky, they would see cars with tinted windows drive in and out, and imagine that the girls might be inside. She might have been driving a similar car today if she hadn’t just returned from Tarth this morning. She had parked the company car in the basement of this building while she was away, so she’d taken the bus over from the dorm (Shared living quarters for K-pop groups and sometimes their staff; generally just regular apartments rented by their companies) instead.

It strikes her now that she wouldn’t have had to go through the public lobby if she had driven; wouldn’t have had to walk by the person sitting at the reception desk. That person is not one of its usual rotation of immaculately styled, unfailingly courteous women, but rather a security guard with a bored expression who does not acknowledge her at all. He might not have acknowledged her even if she had greeted him with a smile. The needlessly warm knee-length coat seems all the more needless now, and Brienne can’t help but sigh as she scans her access card at the turnstile. The glass barriers slide open for her with barely a sound, as do the doors of the nearest lift. Inside, she scans her card again so it will take her to her floor.

It might feel like enemy territory, but she is no intruder.

The lift door opens on a logo that, even after four months in this building, Brienne has still not quite gotten used to. D LABEL, it reads, in a font utterly devoid of character, fashioned in metal that had been painted a muted dark grey. The rebranding, described in the official press release as “a contemporary aesthetic for a new generation”, had stripped the company of any of its former recognisability, so completely that erasure must have been its true intent. Sometimes, however, Brienne thinks this change was a blessing in its own twisted way. Next to the D Label logo is the menacing golden lion of the Lannister Group, and in the same gold, the sleek L.E. of Lannister Entertainment. To have these shine brightly beside the old Direwolf Music logo would have been too unpleasant a reminder of the bitter acquisition; of what Stark Holdings had been forced to lose, or had agreed to lose in the negotiations. It is just ‘D Label’ now, a subsidiary of Lannister Entertainment. The wolf, defeated by the lion, is nowhere to be seen.

Brienne strides past the entrance, each step pushing down the guilt she feels about having evaded a trip to Winterfell. Catelyn Stark would have wanted to see her, almost as much as she wanted to see her daughter Sansa. Brienne was meant to accompany Sansa back home, in fact, until Sansa’s half-brother Jon had offered to do so in her stead. Though his decision was probably more to do with the fact that a certain other member of his sister’s group was headed further north, and transiting in Winterfell. It was a good thing Jon had decided on university in King’s Landing, which put a healthy distance between himself and his stepmother. That he’s been able to spend some time with the girls, and gotten close to Ygritte as a result—that part is not so good. Both Jon and Ygritte have sworn that nothing is going on, but Brienne isn’t so sure that she believes them. It’s not that Brienne thinks the girls shouldn’t date, and it’s not that the company forbids it at this stage of their careers. But they know the risks: for an idol, all dating is a dating scandal waiting to happen.

Anyway, that is for Ygritte’s manager to handle, not Sansa’s. Brienne has been working for the group since before they even debuted (An idol or group's first official release or public performance) three years ago, but she manages Sansa almost exclusively now that Sansa has a fair number of solo schedules (Activities involving only a single member of a group, such as appearances at events or on TV/online content, photoshoots, endorsements) of her own. This was the promise she had made to Catelyn: that she would stay by Sansa’s side, through the acquisition and beyond. What she hadn’t promised was to be some sort of spy infiltrating Lannister Entertainment. That is how Catelyn seems to treat her these days, even though Brienne doesn’t have access to the kind of information that might reverse the events of the past year. More and more often, Brienne has been finding herself avoiding Catelyn’s texts and calls. She gets why Catelyn still does this, she really does. The impact the acquisition had on her family—on her husband Ned especially, who had launched his own career with Direwolf Music—that impact was, and still is, devastating. But Brienne is trying really hard every day to do her job well, to make sure Sansa and the rest of the girls are still able to do everything they’d worked so hard for. Seeing the Starks in person was not going to help her do her job well.

Not that she means to prioritise her job during her break. It’s hard not to think about it, though, even when she was doing something as banal as visiting her father on Tarth. Everybody on the island knows that Selwyn’s girl works for one of the biggest girl groups in Westeros, and everybody wouldn’t stop asking her about it for the five days she was there. Oddly, coming back to King’s Landing to spend the second half of her break by herself—living alone in the apartment she usually shares with five other girls whom she, technically, works for—feels like the most selfish, rejuvenating thing she could do. And aren’t the girls always telling her she should be more selfish?

So she’s here at her place of work, for reasons other than work. After the last hectic months preparing for, and then promoting, the group’s first comeback (Describes any new release by a group/soloist that has already debuted, regardless of how long it has been since their last release) since the acquisition, after all the endless meetings bleeding into endless recording sessions and endless dance practices, the silence on the D Label floor is almost eerie. Brienne heads towards the door at the end of the corridor, passing the girls’ dedicated vocal rooms along the way. Such rooms are not the norm for Lannister Entertainment artists, she’d found out recently; they’re meant to replicate the cubicles back at Direwolf Music, which Ned had designed for the girls’ individual practice. Each door features the members’ initials in the same font as the D Label logo: M for Margaery, A for Arianne, Y for Ygritte, D for Dany, and S for Sansa. Together, they spelled their group’s name, MAYDS. Not the most forward-thinking of names—Brienne had thought so back then, and still thinks so now—but the absurdity of names in the industry never seems to correspond to a group’s popularity or lack thereof. Once a group has proved itself, no one thinks about etymology. For these five girls, the word ‘maid’ had long become something celestial.

With the girls all back home visiting family and getting some well-deserved rest, Brienne has the practice room (A studio typically used for rehearsing choreography) to herself for the first time since they moved into this building. She puts her bag down on the bench in the corner, shrugs off her coat, and proceeds to do some light stretching. As she does so, she watches herself in the room’s full-length mirrors. Mirrors in practice rooms must be made of materials from another universe; she’s absolutely convinced of this. It always feels entirely different looking at her reflection here compared to anywhere else. The fact that she is much taller and much broader than average doesn’t change, and the awkward sprinkling of freckles over a twice-broken nose doesn’t change either. But everything ungainly about herself transforms into strength, and everything unwomanly, into power. As a manager, she hides behind dark jeans and plain shirts and a neatly trimmed straw-blonde bob, receding as much as she can into the background so the girls are always the centre of attention. In the practice room now, she dares to wear a cropped grey hoodie, under which peeks the bright blue band of her sports bra. A strip of bare skin, then sweatpants cinched around her waist, and finally her favourite pair of white sneakers to complete the look.

When she is done with her stretches, Brienne reaches into her bag to take out two phones. Her own phone, she links to the Bluetooth speakers, scrolling to the playlist she’d prepared on the way back from Tarth. The extra one, she sets up on the tripod that was already here in the room. Then she opens the camera app, switches to video mode, and hits record.

As is her ritual, she warms up with the same song that has started her dance practices for more than a decade. The familiar beats thunder through the speakers, and it is just like she is sixteen again, seeing Renly in concert for the first time. Even after so many years, Crown is still her favourite of all his title tracks (Lead single). It is, perhaps, a far more demanding choreography than what is necessary for a mere warm-up, but it never fails to get her in the right headspace, and to awaken her muscles in exactly the way she needs. When she had watched Renly perform it live, the desire that burned inside her wasn’t merely for him. It was to be him. In many ways—visuals (An idol’s looks; the best looking members of each group are also referred to as ‘visuals’), personality, even vocals, which should be passable at the bare minimum—Brienne isn’t made to be an idol, nor is she envious of that life. But in the safety of the practice room, she can be whoever she wants to be.

Eventually, the song reaches its triumphant end; she holds its ending pose for a few long breaths, her eyes squeezed shut while she relishes the moment. As her blood pumps through her veins and beads of sweat roll down her cheeks, she thinks this is the most alive she’s felt in a long, long time.

Suddenly, she hears a voice say:

“Didn’t peg you for a Renbow.”

Her eyes fly open. In the mirror, she sees a man standing there, inside the practice room, his back against the closed door. She had been so engrossed in dancing that she hadn’t seen or heard him come in at all. Whipping around to face him, she composes her expression into what she hopes is something approaching neutral. This is pointless; she doesn’t need to look in the mirror to know that her cheeks are burning red, and she doesn’t need to look at the man’s widening smirk to know that he’s noticed. South of that smirk, he is dressed in a burgundy tracksuit, with thin gold stripes running down his sleeves and the sides of his legs. It’s the kind of design that would look ridiculous unless its wearer is ridiculously good-looking—which Brienne has to admit Jaime Lannister is—or possesses a ridiculous amount of confidence—which Brienne prefers to describe as ‘arrogance’ in Jaime Lannister. The outfit might be even more surprising than his presence itself. He just looks so… casual, standing there with that godsdamned smirk on his face, framed by dark blonde stubble that hadn’t been there when she’d last seen him a week ago. Or ever. Before today, Brienne has never seen him look anything other than clean-shaven, or dressed in anything other than impeccably tailored suits.

At least, not in person. After all, there are still grainy videos on the internet of Jaime Lannister in his past life, back when dance practices were recorded just for a group’s reference, and not for their fans’ consumption. Long before he was the head of MAYDS’s A&R (Artists & Repertoire, a division in a recording label responsible for artistic development; in K-pop, this includes conceptualising the artistic direction for each album, and selecting the songs, producers and so on), Jaime had been an idol too—the youngest of The Kingsguard, and the legendary boy group’s best dancer. The best dancer of his generation, arguably, until his career had been cut short.

Then it dawns on her. He must be here for dance practice too.

“I’m not a Renbow,” she lies instinctively, though she isn’t quite sure why she does. She isn’t embarrassed to be a fan of Renly—even the girls know about it—and yet it feels like an embarrassment now. She tries not to think about the seven-coloured lightstick (Portable electronic light-up devices that K-pop fans use to show support for their idols in concerts; each K-pop idol or group has their own official design) that is still tucked somewhere in the back of her closet, or the posters of Renly she had plastered on the walls of her teenage bedroom, or the shelf in that bedroom where she proudly displayed the few albums she had saved enough money to buy. She especially tries not to think of how she hadn’t brought those albums with her from Tarth, but did bring the precious photocards (Wallet-sized selfies of idols that are released exclusively with albums or merchandise) that came with each one, each encased in holders that she had customised herself. Even today, she still finds solace in the strange intimacy of those printed selfies, despite knowing that they’re also owned by thousands of other fans in Westeros and around the world. As for Renly’s official fandom name, Brienne has never cared for it, but there is a right way of using the word. Fans of Renly are part of the Renbow; they are not individual Renbows. Not that she would give Jaime the satisfaction of correcting him, which would certainly reveal her as, well, part of the Renbow.

“I just like this song,” she continues, ignoring Jaime’s knowing look as she walks over to the phone on the tripod to stop the recording.

“This song,” he replies, “cost The Kingsguard quite a few music show (Weekly music programmes featuring mainly idols or idol groups; each broadcasting company has their own show, and each week, one song/act can earn a win based on album sales, streams, and online voting) wins. Tywin was sulking for weeks.”

Brienne winces. She is still not accustomed to Jaime calling his father—and the head of the Lannister Group—by his first name. But she doesn’t point this out. Instead, she turns back to Jaime and says: “Crown deserved those wins. Command Me wasn’t nearly as good.”

This only makes his smirk morph into a grin, and Brienne curses herself for opening her mouth. She’d sounded so… so petulant. What she could have said was, yes, Command Me was one of The Kingsguard’s weaker title tracks—its experimental production didn’t quite come together in the end—but it was also hampered by its lyrics, which were a little too risque for the time. The choreography, too, was more sensual than the general public was used to, and more androgynous, which might have been its greater crime in their eyes.

Though maybe saying all of that would have been worse. Imagine if Jaime knew how much she loved The Kingsguard too, back then. Imagine if Jaime found out her bias (A fan's favourite member within a group) was him.

“It’s cute that you think those wins are at all a judgement of quality,” Jaime tells her, mercifully oblivious to her fears. “But for what it’s worth, I agree. Musically, that is. That choreo is still one of my favourites.”

Then, he unzips his jacket to reveal a fitted white t-shirt, and throws the jacket on the bench next to her coat and bag. Hold on, is he—

“There are other practice rooms,” Brienne blurts out. He must have access to the ones elsewhere in the building; she doesn’t.

“This one suits me well enough.” Jaime takes out his phone from his pocket to check the time. “What time will you be done?”

“I—I just started. I just—”

He glances up at her. “You started with Crown? Seven hells, you are a beast.”

She recoils at this comment, and narrows her eyes. “What exactly do you mean by that?”

Jaime lifts his palms up as if in surrender. “I meant it as a compliment, truly. I didn’t know you could dance like that. Or at all, in fact.”

“Yes,” she says stiffly. “And I was here first. So if you would so kindly—” she extends an arm towards the door— “You can use other rooms, I’m sure.”

“On other floors. With other people on them.”

At these words, Jaime flexes his right hand; subconsciously, Brienne thinks. That’s the other thing that’s different about Jaime today—he isn’t wearing the golden glove that covers his right hand on a daily basis. His constant use of the glove seemed to suggest that his hand had been horribly disfigured, but now that she can see what it looks like underneath, it really isn’t so bad. Sure, the scarring is extensive, but it’s also healed nicely in all the years since the accident. From what she’s observed, he can still use his hand, or at least knows how to disguise its limited mobility. She must have been staring at it for a little too long, though, because Jaime jerks it backwards and turns away.

“I’m sorry,” she says, “I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s fine.” His voice is flat as he picks up his jacket from the bench. “I’ll come back in—I’ll just be in my office.”

“Wait—” Brienne takes a deep breath, then picks up her phone, the one with the playlist. She knows she’s going to regret this, but she looks at Jaime and asks, “What were you planning on practising?”

One corner of his lips turns upwards. “I don’t plan.”

Restraining herself from rolling her eyes, she walks over to him and shows him her playlist. “Pick something. We can—both do it. If you like.”

Jaime pauses for a second to contemplate her offer, before dropping his jacket again and taking the phone from her. “Were you going to work on something specific today?”

“No. Just going through a few choreos I already know.”

“Interesting,” he murmurs as he scrolls through the songs. “All boy groups. Or male soloists. Oh, the Sand Snakes—hmm, but that really is their most aggressive one, isn’t it?”

“Just—pick one,” Brienne almost hisses. So much for being nice to the man. Now he’s just psychoanalysing her music choices.

“What,” Jaime teases, and that stupid smirk is back on face. “You don’t think you can pull off any girl group choreo?”

“If you’re going to use this as an opportunity to mock me, then—”

“I’m not! It was a genuine question! You clearly have the talent—”

“It’s just—not my style, alright? I don’t look like—”

She stops. Once again, Brienne wishes she’d just kept her mouth shut. She wishes it even more when she sees Jaime’s eyes scan the length of her body—the precise opposite of the ideal petite physique that all female idols are expected to have—and prays she’d imagined him lingering a little too long on that strip of bare skin beneath her sports bra. She resists the urge to yank the hem of her hoodie downwards, and swipes her phone from his hand. “Forget it. Go hide in your office if you want, and I’ll let you know when I’m done.”

“Hey, listen—I’m sorry. You can pick. I’m fine with any of those songs.”

Brienne exhales, and wills herself to meet his eyes. “You should pick one that you know.”

He gives her an amused look. “You know them all, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Pick one, and run me through it once. I’ll pick it up.”

Once? Okay, she knows he’s a phenomenal dancer, but once?

“Fine,” she says, trying not to sound incredulous. “We’ll do the Sand Snakes, then.”

She doesn’t know if she chooses this just to prove a point. The choreo is definitely the most feminine of all the songs on her playlist—it’s the Sand Snakes after all, who are actually Arianne’s cousins, and their group’s whole vibe can only be described as mystical Dornish girl crush (A sexy, cool aesthetic with emphasis on female empowerment; meant to appeal to a female audience)—but when Brienne performs this song, bringing to it all the raw power more commonly seen in boy groups, it becomes something entirely different. Still a great hip workout though, and in truth, she’s curious to see how Jaime Lannister might bring the dance to life.

“Oh.” Tentatively, Jaime holds out his right hand. “The hand movements might be… difficult. For me.”

Brienne goes over the choreo in her mind. She hadn’t thought it would be beyond Jaime’s abilities, but she also hasn’t examined his hand up close. “It doesn’t have to be perfect,” she says gently, and with more than a little puzzlement. His hesitation feels so at odds with the unflappable man she’s worked with for the past few months, who’d walked into his first meeting with the girls and blew them away with his grand ideas. She remembers how the girls had been so nervous leading up to that. Well, Sansa had been nervous, worried that Jaime’s appointment was Tywin’s way of keeping Ned Stark’s daughter in check; Arianne and Ygritte had been ready to fight him on anything; Margaery was just trying to keep everyone calm; and Dany… Dany hadn’t known what to feel. Jaime Lannister had been in the car with her father Aerys when he’d died. Up till a few weeks before that meeting, they’d all believed that Jaime had been driving that car. That’s what most people in Westeros still believe; even more so than the serious injuries to his hand, it was what had ended Jaime’s career.

But it was Aerys who had been driving. Drunk. Jaime had only been a passenger. Tywin Lannister—who, some say, never wanted Jaime to be an idol in the first place—had sacrificed his son’s career to keep the King’s memory untarnished. Even now, Jaime’s work for MAYDS has to be credited under a pseudonym. The D Label staff had to know the truth, of course, including the members of MAYDS and their managers. They know it because they’d been told by the Lannister Group’s blank-faced lawyers, and instructed to sign iron-clad non-disclosure agreements. Then, they were left in the room to deal with Dany’s inevitable breakdown. She hadn’t been close to her father at all—hadn’t had the opportunity, considering how obsessed he had been with his own career—and yet…

“I’ll pick something else,” says Jaime, cutting through Brienne’s memories. “We can do another Renly one, if you like.”

Brienne gestures at his hand. “Does it hurt?”

“No, but it’s… I can’t do anything too nuanced, if that makes sense.”

“I’ll modify the choreo then,” she offers. “Come on.”

As it turns out, she doesn’t have to modify much. Perhaps a routine that required more grace might have been a challenge, but the intricate hand movements in this one are angular if anything, and Brienne guides him through it as their arms draw strong lines in the air. Run me through it once, he’d said, and he’d meant it. When he tells her that he’s ready, though, Brienne isn’t prepared for exactly how ready. If she hadn’t been so focused on hitting all of her own marks, she would have spent the entire song staring at him open-mouthed. His memory is astounding. He barely makes one mistake.

Once the song is over, she turns to him and demands, “What are you?”

Jaime opens his arms and bows. “The best dancer of my generation, thank you very much.”

“You’re a machine, that’s what you are.”

“Didn’t you see me on all the variety shows (A diverse genre of television entertainment in South Korea that might be composed of various stunts, performances, skits, quizzes, games, and comedy acts; often featuring celebrities including K-pop idols) back in the day? My management really pushed my memory as my special talent.”

“Well, yes, but I thought all of that was just editing or something.”

“Nope,” he beams, and this… isn’t arrogance. No, it’s something more buoyant than that, and Brienne wonders how long it’s been since he’s been praised for his dancing—or danced in front of anyone at all. “And you?” he continues. “You sell yourself short, thinking you can only do boy group routines.”

“Sure,” she scoffs. “Tell that to the kids I trained with back in the day.”

“You were a trainee (Idol trainees sign contracts with agencies to spend years in a rigorous system of singing, dancing, and acting lessons, often from their pre-teens, with no guarantee of debut)?” Jaime asks, a little too gleefully for her liking.

“Not a trainee,” she mumbles, avoiding his eyes. “Just trained. In dance.” Walking over to her bag to grab her bottle, she adds, “Thought I’d join a dance crew (A group of dancers who perform as a collective; in K-pop, dance crews or their 'leaders' often choreograph routines for idols/groups) one day. But none of them knew what to do with me, even the ones who thought I was good. I stuck out like a sore thumb among girls, and the boys, well, they either couldn’t take me seriously or saw me as a threat. Then I found myself at Direwolf, and… the rest is history.”

“The Starks didn’t know?”

“Oh, they knew. I used to practise all the time, when I wasn’t working.” She takes a sip of water. “I even trained Arya—Sansa’s younger sister. She’s joined a crew herself, now.”

“Huh,” Jaime says, strolling towards her. “Ever choreographed any songs for MAYDS?”

Brienne gives him a look.

“What? Just because you don’t feel suited to girl group choreo—”

“I did one routine for them. For one B-side (Any song on an album that is not the title track), okay?”

“Oh, I know which—”

“See? You can tell.”

“Gods, I meant that in a good way, Blue.”

“You don’t even know my—wait. What did you just call me?”

“Blue.” He taps a finger on his own cheekbone. “It’s the eyes, you know. And you’re always wearing blue. Even—”

Oh, he is definitely looking at her sports bra, and the strip of bare skin beneath it. She has no qualms about yanking her hoodie down now. “Gross,” she mutters childishly, unable to think of anything more eloquent to say. She might have accepted him calling her Blue for her eyes, but now she’ll never not think of the sports bra. “Keep it to Brienne, alright?”

“Fine.” Jaime is smirking again. “You do look good in blue, though.”

At that, she squeezes her bottle at him, spraying the water right in his face.

At least, she was aiming for his face. Where the water ends up is somewhere a little lower.

“What the fuck was that for?” exclaims Jaime, looking down at himself in shock. The water is already soaking through his white t-shirt.

“You were mocking me!” Brienne says wildly, then rummages through her bag for her towel. Which is blue, of course, as if she needed another reminder of that. “Here,” she shoves the towel at him.

“I was trying to be nice.” Jaime pats her towel uselessly over his chest. “In what world is ‘you look good’ not a nice thing to say? Oh, this isn’t helping, I’ll just—”

And then he pulls his t-shirt over his head.

If there’s a word that can describe the sound that just came out of Brienne’s mouth, she can’t think of it right now.

She spins away so her back is to Jaime, except she’s in a room full of mirrors, so the only way to not see his bare chest is to keep her eyes tightly shut. “Gods damn it, Jaime Lannister!”

“You are such a prude,” he laughs. “It’s just skin.”

“It’s the skin of my boss. I do not want to see the skin of my boss.”

“Do managers report to A&R now? Did I miss the memo?”

“You are the son of my boss. Therefore it is the skin of my boss.”

“That is… disturbing. I’m going to forget you ever said that.”

Brienne lets out a huff of frustration, and cracks one eye open. This is not a dream. Jaime Lannister is still not wearing a shirt. Her cheeks are on fire. “Don’t you have a change of clothes in your office?” she asks desperately.

“Nope.”

“Your jacket—”

“Too warm.”

“I have an extra t-shirt in my—”

“I’m good like this, thank you. What song should we do next?”

Forcing both eyes open, she turns back to face him. “You can’t be serious.”

“I’m absolutely serious,” Jaime grins, in that stupidly obnoxious way of a man who knows exactly how well sculpted his muscles are. “It’s more comfortable for me. You’re welcome to take off that hoodie too, if you like.”

Brienne usually does so about halfway through her practices, but she’s not going to give him the satisfaction today. “I’m good like this, thank you,” she echoes him, with a generous sprinkling of hostility.

The next couple of choreos they do are firmly in boy group domain, with Brienne deliberately picking the more dynamic ones to get the annoyance out of her system. Except she’s only more annoyed by the end of it, because Jaime is just… so good. It’s not just his memory, and it’s not just his technique. When he dances, it’s like something otherworldly takes over his entire being, some hypnotic and incandescent aura. She is very annoyed about this, almost as annoyed as she is about his stupidly obnoxious chest glistening with sweat, but most of all she’s annoyed that he doesn’t get to do this anymore. Jaime is—he must be in his mid thirties now, which many people consider old for an idol. But someone like this—someone born to perform—they should get to be on stage every day.

She won’t bring this up, though. Not now.

“You know what?” Jaime says, as they’re sitting together on the floor after wrapping another routine. His shirt had dried quickly, thank the Seven, and he’d just put it back on. “I want to see you do the Woods-Witch dance challenge (A short section of a song's choreography, usually its chorus, which is filmed for TikTok; K-pop idols promote their songs by roping in other idols and encouraging fans to do these challenges). Just for fun.”

Brienne groans. “That feels like it’ll be painful on many levels.”

“Hey, what do you have against the song?”

“It’s not the song. Like I said, I don’t do girl group choreos.”

“And like I said, I think you can pull them off. It’s not like I’m asking you to do it in heels.”

The thought of doing any choreo in heels terrifies her. Brienne has always admired the girls for being able to pull off their routines so effortlessly, but she has no interest in trying it, ever. Her terror must have been plain to see, because Jaime bursts into laughter as he falls backwards onto the floor.

“It won’t even look like Woods-Witch when I do it,” she grumbles in response.

“Maybe, but it doesn’t have to. Besides, it’s a title track by a girl group that you manage.”

“Which means I’ve had to sit through it about a thousand times in the past few weeks.”

“Which means that you know the choreo like the back of your hand.” Still lying on the floor, Jaime nudges her foot with his. “Also, I’m offended by your implication that listening to Woods-Witch is torture. Do you even know how many revisions I requested to make sure it was amazing? Tell me it wasn’t the perfect song for this comeback.”

It was the perfect song for the comeback. With its lush, enchanting orchestral refrains, Woods-Witch was a complete stylistic departure from any girl group release in the past year, yet it still had an addictive hook that would stick in your head for days. It had the concept to match too, inspired by the children of the forest, styled by up-and-coming couture designers whom Jaime had scouted himself. So much for the media joking that the ‘D’ in D Label stood for ‘dungeon’, and that Tywin Lannister would leave the girls to languish. This couldn’t have been further than the truth; or perhaps it had been Jaime who had fought tooth and nail for his vision. The Woods-Witch music video—which had amassed about fifty million views in just one month, a milestone MAYDS had never achieved in so short a time—was even preceded by three art films that vastly expanded MAYDS’s lore (A storyline that some K-pop groups establish through their music releases and other forms of marketing). In them, the girls had never looked more ethereal.

And now Jaime wants her to do an ethereal dance challenge. Her. Just for fun.

“How about this,” he says, leaping up from the floor to grab her second phone from its tripod. “You do it one time, and I’ll record it. If you hate it when we watch it back, we’ll just delete it. Simple as that, and I’ll never bother you about it again.”

“One time,” she repeats warily.

“I swear it.”

There is no way in all seven hells that that turned out well, Brienne decides about two minutes later. When they watch it back, she has to do so through a one-eyed grimace, with the phone at an arm’s length away from her.

“It is not that bad,” insists Jaime. “I mean, you could look a little less like you’re being forced to do this at gunpoint, but I could see this work with some practice.”

“One time,” Brienne reminds him through gritted teeth, and Jaime rolls his eyes.

“I’m just saying,” he sing-songs, “this would blow up on social media if we posted it on the official accounts.”

“It would not.”

“Of course it would. The fans would love to—” Just then, Jaime stops to give her the strangest look. “You… don’t know, do you?”

“Don’t know… what?”

“About the hashtag. #sansashotmanager?”

“The what?!” Do people still use hashtags unironically? No, not the point—does she even want to know where this is going?

“The girls never told you? You have a hashtag. Although I think it’s being used ironically. The hashtag, not your nickname.”

This is it. This might be the most mortifying thing that Brienne has ever experienced, even counting dance practice with a bare-chested Jaime Lannister. “Sansa’s. Hot. Manager,” she says, very, very slowly.

“Yeah. Seems like it was an inside joke for a few hardcore fans, but more and more people have been using it, especially with this comeback.”

Right. An inside joke. Of course. Why would anyone call her—

Without saying another word, Brienne walks towards the bench, and begins to pack her things. She feels—she wants to get out of here. The room feels so stifling all of a sudden. Her eyes fall on her needlessly warm knee-length coat, and the thought of putting it back on makes her want to rip it to pieces. Instead, she takes out her extra t-shirt from her bag, then pulls her hoodie over her head, and—

“—enne.” There is a hand around her wrist. “Hey. What’s going on? We’ve barely—”

“I’m done.” Her own voice sounds very far away. “You can have the room.”

The hand tugs softly on her wrist, and she turns around to see Jaime frowning at her. “Did I say something wrong?”

“No. Thank you for telling me about—the hashtag.”

“Are you… mad? About that? It’s all in good fun—”

“Sure. At my expense.”

Jaime’s frown deepens. And yet again, she should have kept her mouth shut.

“You think they’re making fun of you,” he says, and Brienne doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry at this most obvious of statements.

“What else am I supposed to think?” She wrests her arm from his hold. “Sansa’s Hot Manager?”

Understanding dawns on Jaime’s face, and his frown melts away. “Oh,” he says softly. “You really don’t know.”

“Know what?”

There is, inexplicably, a hint of a smile on Jaime’s lips. “I think you’ve been surrounded by idols for a little too long.”

“Yeah, well, it’s my job to be—”

“No, let me rephrase that. I think you’ve been surrounded by idol beauty standards for a little too long.”

It’s her turn to frown at him now.

“They genuinely mean it,” Jaime says. “About you being hot.”

“… what?” That can’t be— But she looks so—

“It seems to have started in a predominantly female section of the fandom,” he explains, almost academically, “though it’s spread beyond that since. They adore you, Brienne. They love how dependable you are, and how you take really good care of Sansa and the rest of the girls. When the girls are in public, being mobbed by the media? When that guy tried to rush the stage at one of the fansigns (A meet-and-greet event where fans can meet their idols face to face; idols often sign their albums with personalised messages)? They love that you’re strong enough to fend these people off. You’re like a knight in shining armour to them. They gush about it all over social media.”

“I—But I’m just doing my job.”

“You’re her manager. Not security.”

“Still, that’s not…” Brienne swallows. “… being hot.”

“It is to them. Or it’s a big part of it.” Jaime’s smirk returns. “I’d go into more detail about the rest, but I suspect that will make you very uncomfortable.”

With his last words, she is suddenly, painfully aware that she had never put on her t-shirt. She turns away from him to grab it from the bench, and scrambles to pull it over her head. Fucking hells, she’s been standing here all this time with just her sports bra on, while Jaime Lannister had explained to her why the fans think that she’s hot.

You do look good in blue, though.

She wants to dig a hole in this practice room floor, and bury herself in it.

Seeing as that’s impossible, she’ll settle for running full speed back to the dorm, and not leaving it again for the rest of her break.

“Look, I’m just going to—” She picks up her bag and coat. “I’m going to go.”

“Hey, don’t—” Jaime sighs. “I’m sorry I brought this up, okay? I thought you knew. Let’s not—we have the practice room to ourselves for the rest of this evening. Let’s not waste it.”

“You’re free to use it.”

“Yes, but—I’d appreciate the company. It’s been a long time since I…” He sighs again. “It’s been a long time. And I thought—I liked…”

Jaime trails off, all traces of his usual confidence gone. Cautiously, Brienne glances at him, but he is looking away from her now, his gaze blank and distant. Then, he seems to summon himself back into himself, and meets her eyes. “Why don’t you have dinner with me?”

That… was not what she expected him to say.

“My treat,” he continues. “Let me make this up to you.”

“There’s nothing to make up for,” Brienne replies, as surprised by her own nerve as she is by his offer.

“Maybe not,” he shrugs. “But I think I’ve worked up an appetite, haven’t you?”

“Um.” Abruptly, her nerve deserts her. “Well, I usually—”

Just then, her stomach growls. Traitors—her nerve and her stomach both.

Jaime smiles at the sound, and forges on. “We can go to the cafe down the street. Get something light, then if you decide that you’re still up for it, we can come back to practise some more.”

“Um,” she repeats, instead of saying, no, I’m running full speed back to the dorm and never leaving it again.

“Please? What if I—I’ll do the dance challenge too, when we’re back.”

“You—you clearly want to do it,” she counters, finding her words again. “That doesn’t seem like a fair trade.”

“Ah, but it’s very valuable blackmail material. After all, I’m a fallen idol.”

“Don’t joke about that,” Brienne says in alarm, despite Jaime’s inordinate cheerfulness. “I don’t want to blackmail you. We can have dinner, alright?”

“And come back here?”

“Yes, fine, we can come back.”

“Great! Then we can go for supper and drinks after. Assuming you’re free, of course.”

Wait. Dinner, more practice, supper? Drinks? What is—why is Jaime Lannister making plans for the evening? Why is Jaime Lannister making plans for the evening with her? “I—I don’t know,” is all Brienne can say.

“You don’t know if you’ll be free?”

“No! I mean—yes. I mean, I don’t—” Oh, she hopes she doesn’t regret this— “I’m free.”

“Perfect.” He picks up his phone. “I’ll make a reservation at The Bear and Maiden.”

The Bear and Maiden. The Bear and Maiden, the restaurant idols favour for its discretion? Before Brienne can stop herself, she says, “But isn’t that where idols go on—”

Dates?

“Food’s excellent, and they’re good at keeping secrets.” Jaime raises his scarred right hand as an illustration of said secret; his left is already holding his phone to his ear. “Anyway, last I checked, neither of us is an idol.”

“O-of course.” Is the hole in the floor still an option? “I didn’t mean to imply—”

“Just a hot manager and a hot A&R guy. Hi, yes, it’s Jaime Lannister. My usual table at nine-thirty, please. For two, this time. Thanks, see you later.”

“Who even calls themselves hot?” mutters Brienne once he hangs up, if only to distract herself from the other, more petrifying question of is-this-a-date-how-the-fuck-did-this-happen?

“Hot people, obviously.” Jaime gestures at himself. “What, you don’t agree?”

Unbidden, her thoughts go to Jaime dancing shirtless, and her mouth once again loses the ability to form words. Naturally, her stomach picks this moment to growl once more.

“Exactly,” he says, pointing at her belly in agreement.

The heat is blooming in her cheeks again, and Brienne marches towards the door before Jaime can see any evidence of it. “Can we just—go?”

“Happy to,” he calls from behind her.

That night—after the supper, and the drinks, and some very meaningful looks exchanged outside the dorm that she really doesn’t want to read any meaning into—Brienne climbs into her bed with the phone she uses for recording her practices. Nonsensically, she looks around her bedroom as if to check that no one else is here, then pulls up the videos from earlier this evening. She deletes the first dance challenge she shot without even watching it once, but she does watch the next, the one Jaime had persuaded her to do when they got back from dinner. He’d recommended some changes to suit her the second time around; told her what to be more conscious of and what to be more sensitive to. And it came out—better. There’s a fluidity to her movements that she hadn’t thought was possible, or had refused to think was possible for such a long time. She would still rather die than have this posted on social media, but she doesn’t think she’ll delete it, which is something.

She swipes to the next video, the one of Jaime; watches as he makes the movements his own, so effortlessly that it feels like it was choreographed for him alone. Watches as he bursts into laughter at the end, and hears her own laugh offscreen too. She doesn’t think he’s laughed in her presence before today.

A phone buzzes, but it’s not the one in her hand. She swaps it for the one on the nightstand and sees a text from Jaime. See you tomorrow, it simply says; they’d arranged to meet in the practice room again in the afternoon.

See you tomorrow, she types, smiling to herself as she sends it.