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In the three weeks since cotillion had started, Brienne hadn’t improved a bit.
“How do you do it?” she begged of Loras, watching his feet as he navigated the halls. She stumbled into a basketball player, who glared at her before moving on. He was almost as tall as she was.
“You just move,” Loras shrugged. Even that was more graceful than anything she could muster on the dance floor. “It’s not that hard.”
Not that hard.
That was the refrain she’d been hearing for weeks.
She thought she might’ve stood a chance with a decent teacher. She’d been hopeful that second Tuesday, when she’d shown up feeling out-of-place and Jaime had sidled over, claiming her for the afternoon before half the girls had even shown up.
Jaime knew how she thought. Jaime could teach her how to waltz.
That was before the dance instructor had dropped the bomb.
“After critiquing your performances last week, Cersei feels it’s best if we adjust our approach this year.”
Brienne knew just like that that her life was about to get worse.
”From now until the cotillion ball, each of you ladies will have a gentleman assigned to you. Over the course of your dancing tutelage, you will have the opportunity learn with the partner best suited to your particular needs.”
Brienne didn’t get Jaime. Obviously.
Renly she might’ve stood a chance with, or one of the boys who had volunteered in previous years and knew how to teach unteachable debs. But she had no particular inclination to stop stepping on Kyle Hunt’s toes, so she hadn’t learned to.
“You’re biting yourself in the ass,” Renly had pointed out, and Brienne knew he was right.
“I can’t learn if he won’t take me seriously,” she muttered, obstinate. “Do you think you could – “
But he was already shaking his head. Renly was on prom court, and didn’t have time to practice with her.
“Maybe Jaime could help you after hockey,” he suggested practically.
Brienne shook her head, feeling glum.
“He doesn’t have time, either.”
Mr. Lannister had decided Jaime wasn’t putting enough effort into his recovery. His dad had set him up with a physical therapist and a personal trainer, which kept him busy from the minute classes were out til well after dark.
Tyrion had broken the news the morning after she’d joined them at King’s Landing.
“Dad thinks Jaime can’t be trusted with his scholarships, as he’s ‘pissing away his time in diners’ instead of working on his left-handed passes.”
Which had only made her feel guilty.
Jaime had put his foot down about missing hockey, though.
“I’m the fucking captain,” Jaime complained one afternoon.
He’d skipped his fifth period to pester her at lunch. It had taken Brienne half the conversation to figure out that “pester” was code word for “vent.”
“He’s nuts if he thinks I’ll bail on the team.”
He did, according to Tyrion, and if he couldn’t exactly strong-arm Jaime away, he did his best to keep him unavailable. Brienne saw Jaime from a distance, nervously jostling his leg as he watched his team practice and compete. He was always the last one to the rink and the first one out the door, and Coach Selmy stuck to him like a bodyguard.
So Brienne bugged Loras for dance tips, and worried about Jaime, and heard things second-hand unless Jaime was skipping classes, which she really couldn’t approve of no matter how much she wanted see him.
She also spent an inordinate amount of time dodging cheerleaders and pretending prom didn’t exist.
Campaigns were in full swing, much to her dismay. The prom court nominees were officially announced two Fridays ago, chosen by a selection of teachers and SGA kids.
When Margaery’s name was announced, Brienne felt something ease inside her. It didn’t last long; Cersei’s name rounded the list, and Brienne’s stomach clenched into a knot.
Everyone knew Queen Cersei was a shoe-in. She’d been voted two years running. Sophomores weren’t even allowed on the ballot, but her boyfriend Bob had been a senior that year, and she’d somehow convinced the administration that if she could attend she could run for court. It hadn’t even been a contest.
Brienne felt bad for Margaery and the other girls. She didn’t know Dany Targaryen, and she’d only seen Jane Westerling at cotillion, but she hoped they had better sense than Margaery, who seemed pretty confident that she could win the crown.
She also hoped, for Renly’s sake, that he had a shot at prom king.
From the deafening cheers Jaime and Robb had received, it was obvious they were the favorites. They didn’t even have to campaign. Votes were just going to fall into their laps.
Jaime had given her a few halfhearted tips on Margaery’s campaign trail. Mostly he was trying to convince her to ditch Health to go get him a breakfast burrito, but knew what he was talking about. She almost missed half of Pycelle’s lecture turning it over in her head. She couldn’t believe it was so easy.
“All I have to do is tell Loras I’m coming over to teach Margaery body checks?”
Jaime shrugged.
“Say it loud, say it proud.”
“And make sure they know she’s been at every game?” she parroted suspiciously.
“Yup.”
Brienne narrowed her eyes at him, and he quirked half a grin. She felt like she was missing something.
“It’s the Sports Illustrated allure. Besides,” he added, digging into his backpack for a granola bar. “You wouldn’t hang out with her if she’s not legit.”
Brienne just wanted prom to be over.
Margaery was bad enough, but Renly was nearly impossible to talk to. You’d have never known his boyfriend talked him into it from the way he’d thrown himself into campaigning. Speeches, favors, and his gorgeous face plastered on every locker that didn’t have Cersei’s.
The only person she knew who wasn’t knee deep in prom madness was Sansa. The girl might be inextricable from half the nominees, but she was an underclassman, same as Brienne. That meant no proms and no prom queens.
Unfortunately, whenever Brienne saw her, Sansa seemed to be going the other way. That, or surrounded by girls in pleated skirts and school colors.
The final bell blared through the classroom like some kind of disaster siren.
Brienne sighed, pushing herself out of her seat and gathering her things. The last class of the day had flown by, and now she had to face the real world. She was not looking forward to another afternoon of falling all over herself while twenty-some girls deftly navigated another lesson in deportment.
She moved slowly through the halls, delaying the inevitable.
Jaime fell into step beside her, as if that were totally normal and required no comment.
Brienne shrugged her backpack onto her shoulder, fiddling with the strap as they walked.
“What are you doing after cotillion?”
Brienne couldn’t stop herself from scrunching her nose in distaste.
Today they were learning table manners. Silverware and posture and how to drink tea without spilling on the tablecloth. She was sure to be a catastrophe, no matter how many times Margaery advised, “Just do what I do.”
“I was going to skate a bit,” she admitted. “Remind myself there’s one thing I’m good at.”
Jaime nodded sharply.
“Why?”
He shrugged and she bit her lip, watching him scan the crowd for eavesdroppers.
“My PT’s sick,” he divulged, shifting closer so she could hear his undertone. “And the trainer thinks I need a day off.”
“Oh.”
She felt relieved, to be honest. The extra workouts were good for his recovery, but he’d been kind of gloomy since they’d started. And no matter how much Tywin Lannister may think so, helping his mom with cotillion every Tuesday wasn’t exactly a break.
“Have fun,” she smiled sincerely, grasped her shoulder strap tight. Her hand swallowed it whole. “With . . . whatever.”
He smiled at her, laughing soundlessly.
“I’ll stop by,” he told her, melting into the crowd.
Brienne was left staring after him, baffled and valiantly trying not to over-think it.
His motives resolved the minute Jaime strode into the empty, half-lit arena. He was dressed in jeans and a heavy sweater, skates in one hand and basic pads slung over his shoulder.
“No,” Brienne told him, skating over and blocking his way onto the ice. “Not happening.”
“Come on, Brienne,” Jaime cajoled, swinging onto the bench and kicking off his shoes. “I’m going crazy, here.”
“You’ll go crazier when you rebreak your arm and your mom locks you in your room.”
“That’s not going to happen,” Jaime shoved his foot into a skate and looked up at her, imploring. “I trust you.”
Brienne gritted her teeth, willing herself not to give in. It had already been a disaster of an afternoon, and she did not need to be on Tywin Lannister’s hit list on top of Cersei’s.
Jaime began lacing his skate with a hand and a half.
Brienne sighed, tromping off the ice and kneeling in front of him. He grinned as she batted his hand away and tugged his laces tight.
“Passing drills only,” she commanded, to make herself feel like less of a pushover.
“Whatever you say, Lieutenant Tarth, ma’am,” he saluted her.
Jaime snagged her arm so she had no choice but to drag him to his feet. He grabbed an extra stick from the equipment box, and she followed him through the gate, her mouth pressed determinedly into an unreadable line.
It was clear the minute his skates touched the ice that Jaime had needed this. Desperately.
She tried not to feel too bad about it as he skated loops around the ice, his lazy coils more graceful than any figure skater. She wondered if he’d taken lessons with his stepsister. Cersei had won some awards, back in Junior High.
Brienne snorted at herself. Like his dad would let him figure skate. Like Jaime would want to.
“Not so fast,” she snapped as he whipped around, spraying ice.
If he hurt himself, it was her neck.
“It’s not my leg that’s broken,” his laughing retort echoed across the ice.
“Jaime . . .” she warned, gripping her stick more tightly than necessary.
But she couldn’t deny that she had missed this. Being on the ice with someone who didn’t look at her like . . . well . . . Brienne the Badass was what they’d been calling her lately, but it didn’t really feel like a compliment.
The grin that inched up Jaime’s face as he skated back to her was unconscious, free. It probably could have lit up the stands if there were anyone to see it.
“Passing drills only,” he conceded, too solemnly to mean it.
Brienne readied her feet, easing her grip on her hockey stick and shrugging the tension from her shoulders.
Jaime gripped his stick in his left hand, his right coming up to balance it. She could tell it was awkward, the bulk and weight of the cast throwing off his normal passing stance.
His grip was unsure, and it was leaking up into his face.
“Are you – “
“Yes.”
He gritted his teeth, swung his arm from the shoulder. His left wrist moved as deftly as ever.
Brienne chewed the inside of her cheek. She could control her strength and her speed if she needed to, but Jaime was not going to take kindly to her evening the playing field.
She couldn’t make herself suggest slapshots. It would kind of be a slap in the face.
“Let’s pass then,” Brienne offered. Her resolve wasn’t nearly what it should be.
Jaime took a practice swing. He was aiming for air, but the blade caught the edge of the puck and it skipped across the ice, ricocheting off the goal post.
Brienne looked away as he skated over to retrieve it, cursing eloquently under his breath. She knew how he felt. Her hands had been betraying her all afternoon.
She bit her tongue as Jaime tried again. His next shot went wide; the one after barely passed the blue line.
Brienne ended up skating patient circles while Jaime fumbled through his shots. She didn’t want him to feel like she was bored, or disappointed.
It didn’t take long for him to adjust to his new constraints, for him to regain confidence. He wasn’t anywhere near his usual finesse, but Jaime started putting the puck more or less where he aimed it, and the frustration faded from the set of his jaw. Ten minutes after they hit the ice, he was skating the puck in circles around her, relaxed and smiling.
About time, tried to tease him, but the words caught in her throat, so she smiled a challenge at him instead and took off down the ice.
She started with long passes, across half the rink and more, letting Jaime work out his excess energy. It was a tactic she usually employed in scrimmages, when she knew she’d have to face her teammates later on and wanted to wear them down. But it suited her purposes today just as well.
“I know what you’re doing, Brienne,” he called, but he didn’t seem offended, and he didn’t tell her to stop screwing with him.
She shrugged, unrepentant.
They soon moved to close-range passes, complicated maneuvers that required greater dexterity. She moved her skates languidly, not wanting him to push too hard. She could tell he was getting irritated, though. His passes were inelegant, and he fumbled his stick whenever he tried to flick with his right wrist.
“Why don’t we do footwork?” she suggested.
He held his stick in a vice grip, or as close to one as he could manage. He looked ready to chuck it at the boards.
“Sending me to remedial hockey?” Jaime ground his teeth, adjusted his grip on his hockey stick.
Brienne flinched. Her own stick felt suddenly uncomfortable in her hands. She glanced down, willing herself not to accidentally, oh, trip over the blade or break it in half.
“Better than remedial cotillion,” she muttered to her skates.
Jaime snorted drily, tapping his stick on the ice to release his pent-up aggravation.
“That’s not a thing.”
“It is,” she said.
It became one, at least, when she’d broken that antique teapot. Or possibly when she’d accidentally stabbed Mel with her fork.
Bull in a china shop, cotillion coach #2 had called her.
She studied the ice dolefully, watching him from the corner of her eye.
It seemed to take him years to move his gaze from her feet to her face. His eyes flickered, his expression shifting incrementally as her meaning dawned on him.
He opened his mouth as if to say something, but what came out wasn’t a sarcastic jibe or some halfhearted consolation. It was loud, uncontrollable laughter. It echoed off the ice, reverberated along the metal rafters of the ceiling, and rebounded back to her.
She felt swallowed by it.
“Stop it,” she urged through gritted teeth. “It’s not funny.”
“No,” he corrected, breathless through his mirth. “It’s hilarious. Remedial cotillion?” he broke off, clutching his side as he laughed a stitch into it. “You’re barely a month in,” he wheezed, shaking his head at his knees. “What’s there to remedial?”
She thought about smacking him across the back of the head with her hockey stick.
“You’re there, every Tuesday, 3-6pm,” she said instead. “What’s there not to remedial?”
He nodded up at her, eyes watering with his efforts to calm himself.
“A fair assessment.”
You’re worse than Kyle sometimes, Brienne wanted to spit at him.
She tried to control her tone, but she couldn’t force the anger away.
“So I guess I’ll see you after practice tomorrow,” she snapped.
That pulled him up short. He looked at her curiously, barely managing to contain his amusement.
“After practice? Why?”
“For remedial cotillion,” she growled. “With Cersei.”
All traces of amusement fled from his face.
“Shit.”
“Yes,” Brienne agreed, throttling her hockey stick. “That.”
He didn’t seem to know what to say. It would have been satisfying, any other day. Today it just hurt.
Silence fell, clogging the brisk air around them. Brienne wished he would just tell her she was doomed. Out loud, so she didn’t have to read it in his eyes.
She wished he would laugh at her again.
“So how about those footwork drills?” he suggested, when the hush was starting to make her skin crawl.
“W-what?”
He switched his stick to his left hand, skating around her.
“Footwork drills,” he repeated, almost patiently.
Brienne goggled. She had no idea what to do with Jaime’s newfound lack of distain for her suggestion.
I must be worse off than I thought.
He rolled his eyes.
“Fine, I suck at dexterity right now. Let’s do the stupid skating drills.”
She grasped for her anger, tried to throw it up as a shield, but it refused to behave. It kept slipping away from her, determined to outwit her.
She opened her mouth, closed it again.
She really should storm off the ice, refuse to talk to him for a week.
Jaime was skating loose figure-8s around her, moving his hockey stick almost tauntingly, like a conductor directing her with his baton.
Her blades fell into line without her permission. He took the lead, smirking back at her, weaving his blades and looping around. She mimicked him, combining instinct and pure concentration as she fell into the drill. Cotillion and passing drills and Cersei Lannister felt suddenly unimportant as they moved in tandem across the ice.
She watched the muscles in his legs, clear through the fabric of his jeans. Every time they tightened she shifted, reading his intended maneuver clear as any book. She watched his eyes, too, the twist of his torso.
He was trying to trip her up, she thought. To get her mind off of her impending demise. He kept zagging to one side, trying to dart around her. But he gave himself away, couldn’t help it.
The muscles in his calves clenched, and he took off across the ice. He was faster than her, so it took her a few beats to follow.
“Cut it out, Jaime,” her mouth twisted sideways when he faked left, swung around to skate backwards. “This isn’t a game of HORSE.”
“Not my fault you’re slow,” he grinned at her for half a second, zipped behind her.
She turned, skating backwards herself, so she could glare at him.
“Is this amusing you?”
She couldn’t decide if she were annoyed or not. And that was annoying.
“Yes,” he admitted, swinging his right skate in a wide arc, rotating around her with his left foot planted. She had to spin, too, or her frown couldn’t follow him.
He had done figure skating. There was no other way he could execute a turn like that. These skates were wrong, the blades too thin and the boot too heavy. But the move was too . . . well, frilly for him to have learned it while chasing a puck.
She frowned as his feet, appraising.
“Cersei needed someone to practice with,” he shrugged, following the suspicious cast of her eyes.
Brienne’s mouth soured.
Don’t be stupid, instructed the logical part of her brain.
But another part vied for attention. The emotional part, that made her skip every dance in middle school because her au pair, Ms. Roelle, told her she looked terrible in the pink and blue dress her father had bought her.
Of course he learned figure skating for Cersei.
“Turn your heel,” Jaime taunted, darting behind her again.
She obeyed out of frustration more than anything, gritting her teeth and sharply twisting her skate so the heel turned in. Her body swung in a smooth, sharp loop, her blades shaving the ice into a perfect semi-circle.
Jaime was still moving, but her eyes could follow him, now.
“Other one,” he said, pivoting, and she complied.
He turned his left foot and she turned her right, and she watched the rink spin while Jaime stayed in front of her.
When she twisted to a stop, he was closer than she’d remembered, eyes twinkling with suppressed mirth.
She worried her teeth, unsure.
With deliberate slowness, Jaime tossed his stick across the ice. She could hear it clatter and slide, thumping to a stop against the boards.
“May I have this dance?” he mocked.
His left hand was on her hockey stick, pulling up, pressing hard. Her right hand came up to meet him. He rested his right palm lightly on the back of her left, and turned her about the ice until she wasn’t shoving anymore, but offering the necessary resistance.
Her stomach swooped oddly, and Brienne tried to fight the voice that whispered he was just messing with her.
Jaime bore a mischievous grin, but he wasn’t laughing at her. He pushed her along gently, slowly, letting her find her feet. His hand was warm and smooth. His cast scratched the back of her fingers as they moved. She could feel it rubbing raw, but she didn’t ask to stop.
Jaime was dancing with her, and it meant more to her than Renly ever did.
“You know,” she said, swallowing hard, as Jaime pulled her up short, testing her. “It’s kinda weird.”
He pulled on her hockey stick, and Brienne resisted before remembering she wasn’t supposed to.
“What?” he snorted. “Learning to dance by bastardizing hockey drills?”
Brienne’s smile was lopsided, rueful.
Jaime was about to change direction. She saw it in the set of his shoulders. She concentrated, and when he pushed her back and left, she moved her legs to allow it.
He nodded infinitesimally.
The next time Jaime danced backwards, she only tried to lead for half a second.
“I just mean . . . it’s different.”
He gave her a look that said, no duh.
Brienne bit her lip, thinking of how to word it.
“This seems so easy,” she explained, nudging the hockey stick they held between them so he knew what she meant. “I’m hopeless at cotillion. And my first dance, freshman year, Renly – ”
Jaime jerked to a stop, and Brienne bounded into him and bounced back. She lost her grip on her hockey stick, and her feet slipped, almost spilling her flat on the ice. She caught her skates in the nick of time and glared at Jaime, sure he was laughing at her.
His mouth was set in a hard line.
Brienne’s brow’s knotted in confusion.
“Yeah, well,” Jaime shrugged, working the tension from his jaw. “I think you’ve got it down, all right?”
He rolled his shoulder, as if his injured arm was suddenly hurting him. Her hockey stick dropped from his fingers, landing with a familiar smack beside his skates.
“Wait, what?”
Brienne reached out as he started to skate away, catching his sleeve. She lost her resolve and let her fingers catch along the fabric as he slowed his skates. Her arm dropped back to her side, and Jaime paused.
“You don’t need me, Brienne,” he muttered, not looking at her. “Get Renly to teach you the waltz.”
“I don’t – he’s not – “
Brienne scrambled through their conversation, trying to figure out what she’d said wrong.
“What about Renly?”
It was all she could come up with.
“What about him?” he repeated derisively, studiously examining the penalty box.
She set her jaw, refusing to let him mock her.
“Jaime.”
“Brienne.”
“What about Renly?” she repeated firmly.
“Nothing.”
The way he snapped the answer made it clear he meant something else entirely.
Brienne crossed her arms.
Jaime looked at her, and he wasn’t as angry as she’d expected. He looked almost . . . apprehensive.
“You don’t want to know,” he told her, and she believed him.
“I do,” she said, obstinate.
His jaw twitched as he thought it over.
Brienne waited, her stomach writhing.
”It’s-“ he looked at Brienne, exhaled in frustration through his nose. “Look, every few months Renly picked a new freshman to dote on.”
Brienne blinked at him; scoffed.
“Jaime, if you’re trying to convince me Renly used to be some hetero Cassanova-“
“Fuck, Brienne, you were his beard.”
“His . . . what?”
Jaime wasn’t looking at her with that mixture of amusement and exasperation her naivety usually inspired. He was looking like he wanted to smack some sense into her.
“Cover, alibi, arm candy,” he rattled off. “The girl he pretended to bone so he could stay in the closet.”
“But – “ she worked her mouth, blinking rapidly, trying to absorb his words, “I’m not –“
Pretty enough, she couldn’t say.
“Renly – “– cares about me.
Brienne remembered Renly dancing with her that first day of cotillion. The distance in his eyes when he tried to convince her to give Kyle a chance. She thought of Loras fighting with Jaime, and how Renly and his boyfriend got edgy whenever she was particularly effusive about their friendship.
“Oh,” she said smally. “Oh.”
There was something welling deep behind her eyes, rushing and unstable, but the tears didn’t come. Her face was bone dry, stuck flat and unresponsive.
“Brienne,” there was something low and yearning in Jaime’s voice, like he pitied her and wasn’t sure if she should know. He half reached out for her, caught his hand back.
None of it really registered.
For almost two years she’d had one solid friend. One person who helped her navigate classes and school events and her own, mixed up emotions. One person who let her hang out with his boyfriend and helped her avoid cheerleaders and refused to let her show up to school in her dad’s old bomber jacket.
Jaime’s hand caught her elbow. He was warm and solid, and she didn’t really care. She let him guide her off the ice. Her brain felt numb, but her body moved fine. It was an odd reversal, but she didn’t think about that either.
“Want to get burgers?” he asked, nudging her onto the bench and reaching down to clumsily unlace her skates.
She shook her head in refusal, staring at the scoreboard across the arena. It was dead, the lights switched off. WEH was painted proudly on one side, but their last opponents’ letters were coming off in strips, half undone.
Jaime tugged off her skates, dumped them under the bench. The cool air felt strange against her warm, damp socks.
Jaime went to work on his own boots. In a few minutes they joined hers under the bench.
She felt him watching her, but she couldn’t bring herself to look. He would leave soon, and she would sit alone in the empty arena, as she had so many times before. Maybe she’d get angry, like she had with Kyle. Maybe she’d cry bitterly, like she had for Ron.
But Jaime didn’t head out for burgers, or disappear into the locker room, or tell her that it was okay to cry.
He slouched down onto the bench beside her, and didn’t say another word.