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Brienne was covered in freckles—the ugly kind, not the cute kind. They dusted her crooked nose and disappeared into the neck of her blue polo. Jaime thought about trying to count them to pass the time, but she’d probably just punch him for staring at her.
He lifted his legs onto the golf cart dashboard and let his feet stick out in the sun. Big white clouds billowed on the horizon, but they hadn’t had the decency to move this way yet. Across the putting green, Brienne took off her cap and wiped sweat from her forehead. It was boiling out here—it had to be a hundred at least. Cicadas droned endlessly in the trees that lined the fairway. The two golfers who Jaime and Brienne were caddying for had a cooler of beer in the back of their cart, and although Jaime was tempted, he wasn’t stupid.
The rules of the Club were clear: employees washed their hands after using the restroom, always treated the guests with respect, and never got drunk on the job. Jaime had already broken one of those rules when that jerk Aerys tried to take advantage of one of the clubhouse waitresses. He didn’t think he wanted to try his luck with the rest.
Not that he needed this job. He shook his foot against one of the roof supports and the cart tipped and swayed precariously. Jaime’s dad owned Casterly Rock Golf Club, and Jaime could practice here whenever he felt like it. In fact, he could spend his whole summer splitting his time between the driving range and playing Xbox in the finished basement at home, if he really wanted to. But Cersei would be at home—probably with her disgusting boyfriend, Robert—and Jaime didn’t really feel like dealing with her particular shade of crazy.
Besides, who would keep an eye on ol’ Blue if Jaime begged off for the rest summer?
He smirked—she hated that nickname—and watched Brienne direct one of the golfers in their swing. The guy was holding the putter all wrong, his hands too far apart on the grip. Jaime could tell the ball would hit the hole and bounce off even before the guy had finished his follow-through. Jaime rolled his eyes. Amateur.
The golfer, Hoat or goat or something, whacked the putting green with the putter head. A huge clod of dirt flew up and smacked Brienne in the face. Jaime struggled to sit up. The cart swayed again and he grabbed the edge of the roof to steady it. Hoat beat the ground a second time and a third, dirt and turf flying. Brienne clutched her cheek and jumped away from him.
Hoat’s buddy said something unintelligible and backed up with his hands in the air. Hoat swung at him and then rounded on Brienne, and Jaime scrambled out of the cart.
“Hey!” he shouted, running towards them. “Hey!”
Brienne grabbed the putter from Hoat, mid-swing, and tossed it on the grass behind her. Hoat raised a fist instead, and Jaime rushed him, knocking the man off his feet. They grappled on the green, Jaime shoving his arm into Hoat’s neck while Hoat twisted the back of his shirt and pounded his back. Brienne yelled at them stop. She grabbed Jaime’s shoulder to pull him off. The moment Jaime loosened his arm on Hoat’s neck, the man lifted his head and bit down hard on Jaime’s right hand.
Jaime squawked and tried to shake him off, but the man clamped down harder. Jaime punched him in his side, and Hoat let out a muffled grunt. His buddy ran toward the golf cart, his club forgotten on the putting green. Jaime put his left hand up to Hoat’s neck and pressed hard above his Adam’s apple. The man gurgled. His eyes widened and bulged. Finally, he released Jaime’s hand with an audible smack. Jaime hit the man again in the side of his head, and Hoat went out like a light. The golf cart engine whirred to life, and Jaime looked up just in time to see Hoat’s buddy scoot away down the fairway.
“Shit,” Jaime said. “Shit!”
He turned around. Brienne was standing at the edge of the green with a deer-in-the-headlights kind of look. There was a large streak of dirt along one side of her face, but she didn’t seem to notice. “Hey, are you okay?”
Recognition flickered and Brienne seemed to come to life. “Am—am I okay?”
Suddenly, she rushed forward and tugged Jaime off Hoat. He landed on his back with a groan. “What the hell, Blue?”
She dropped on her knees beside him and then pulled his injured hand into her lap. “Am I okay!? You’re such an idiot, Jaime Lannister! What the hell were you thinking?”
His hand was bleeding. A distinct crescent-shaped welt stretched from the bottom of his palm and up to his pinky. He wrinkled his nose; did he even want to know what kind of germs human saliva carried? He glanced at Hoat. The man was still unconscious. His rank black hair fell back off his greasy face. A dark bruise was already blooming high up on his cheek.
There was a ripping sound, and Jaime looked back at Brienne to see her tear a strip from the bottom of her shirt. “What are you doing?” he asked, trying to sit up.
“Stop,” she said firmly, pressing him back. “You’re hurt. You need a bandage. I’m not letting you walk back to the clubhouse with your hand like that.”
Jaime scoffed. “It’s barely bleeding!”
Brienne only rolled her eyes. “I grew up on an island where men—”
“What?” Jaime interrupted, “Bite each other all the time?”
“No,” she growled. “Fishermen get injured all the time. There’s always some kind of puncture wound or accident with the fishing lines.” She looked up at him, her eyes a deep blue. “You don’t let a man bleed. That’s a rule.”
“Gods,” Jaime moaned, “you and your bloody rules.”
Nevertheless, he leaned back on his elbows and let Brienne administer his wound in peace. She wrapped the makeshift bandage around his hand and then tied if off in a neat knot. The hem of her shirt was a frayed mess, and Jaime knew she would get in trouble for ruining company property, but he didn’t mind getting a view of the strip of flesh just above the waistband of her khaki shorts. Brienne wasn’t necessarily attractive, but she was built like a well-toned athlete.
“So, what do we do with him?” Jaime asked, letting Brienne pull him to his feet.
She frowned at Hoat and then looked around at the empty course. It was late in the afternoon. The beverage cart had already made its final pass. It was unlikely that more golfers would be by anytime soon. “We can’t leave him out here, can we?”
Jaime grinned approvingly at the hopeful tone in her voice, then he shook his head in mock surprise. “Don’t be a monster, Blue!”
She rolled her eyes. “Stop calling me that.”
“What? Ol’ Blue? Stop wearing the same polo shirt to work every day and then maybe I won’t.”
She tugged self-consciously at the hem of her shirt. “I have others at home,” she mumbled. “It’s not just the one.”
Her face was red, but Jaime could tell she was trying her best not to blush. He almost felt bad for her, so he said, “We can carry him.” He toed Hoat’s right foot with his shoe. The man didn’t move. “Although he probably smells bad.”
“Jaime, please,” Brienne groaned. “Just grab his arm and help me.”
Jaime did as he was asked, and together, he and Brienne hefted the man between them. They were lucky Hoat was wiry and slight. He looked like a creep who stood on the corner in Fleabottom looking for his next hit of wildfire. Casterly Rock was expensive, the kind of place where executives, doctors, and lawyers came to play. Jaime eyed Hoat’s hanging head; the guy had to be in organized crime or something to afford to play here.
They dragged Hoat off the green and down onto the fairway. The course was laid out like a set of tiles, with the front nine closest to the Club. Paved cart tracks wove in and out of the fairways, connecting each tee box. Leafy trees bordered the fairway while water hazards and sand traps dotted the lawn. They passed a sand trap the shape of Tywin Lannister’s head—not intentional, Jaime was sure, but an awfully good joke on the architect’s part—and headed for the cart path.
Jaime thought it was lucky that Hoat and his friend were such bad players. They’d only made it to the eighth hole after two hours of playing, and there was no way they would have made it through all eighteen by the time the Club closed for the night. If they made it across the fairway and onto the path, they could follow it back to the clubhouse in relatively short order.
The sun beat down overhead and Jaime wished he’d brought a cap. Brienne was always nagging him to wear the Club-issued visor, but, frankly, she was lucky Jaime even wore the red shirt on his back. He thought about pulling it off now and wrapping it around his head, but it would probably send Brienne into a conniption fit.
The only other time she’d seen Jaime with his shirt off had been on accident. She’d walked in on him in the employee changing room on her first day on the job. She’d turned pink and shuffled out with a muffled apology, but Jaime didn’t care. He’d mistook Brienne for a guy and just thought the new kid was weird.
His hand throbbed. He was definitely giving up caddying after this was over. Nothing was worth getting bit by a drug addict in the middle of a golf course. Not even Brienne.
He slid his eyes over to her. She was huffing and puffing under the weight of Hoat, her face blotchy and dripping with sweat. She was the ugliest girl he’d ever known, but she was definitely a girl. He’s seen enough of her milky smooth skin this afternoon to assure him of that. And she was fit, too. He’d seen her jogging after work a few times and knew she went to the gym. Jaime could probably let go of Hoat right now and Brienne would keep on moving.
He grudgingly admired her for that kind of determination. Brienne was the first of the caddies to work and the last to leave. She helped Pia at reception during her lunch hour, and stocked in the pro shop during slow mornings. She’d told Jaime once that she was saving for college, but he didn’t see the point. She was a good enough player to get a scholarship and play on the King’s Landing University women’s golf team, if she wanted to. Hell, she was good enough to go pro with the right sponsorships. He thought about asking his dad to put in a good word with the KLU dean, and then thought better of it. Tywin Lannister didn’t give away anything for free.
The sound of an approaching engine shook Jaime from his thoughts, and he and Brienne paused in the middle of the track. A golf cart sped toward them. Jaime could see Daven sitting behind the wheel, and he relaxed. “Thank gods,” he said, “the cavalry has arrived!”
Daven halted the cart in front of them. “Shit,” he said, staring at them. “Are you lot alright? Guy came back to the garage raving about a brawl out on the eighth. Said his friend got upset and one of the caddies attacked him.”
“We attacked him!?” Jaime exploded, dropping Hoat to the ground. Brienne let out an “oomph” and struggled to pull him back up. “The guy just about punched Brienne in the face! I had to pull him off.”
Daven looked appraisingly at Jaime. “Did you now? That was gallant.”
“It wasn’t,” said Jaime. “The guy was an asshole.”
“It was,” said Brienne from behind him. Jaime glanced at her. She had Hoat over one shoulder now, and Jaime suspected she’d only been humoring him in letting him help her carry Hoat across the fairway. “Gallant, I mean. I never thanked you, Jaime, so… thanks.”
Jaime wished she had waited to say her thanks anywhere other than in front of his cousin. Daven had a big mouth and a love for gossip. The last thing he needed was his cousin spreading rumors of their unlikely love around the Club. “Save your breath,” he told her. “I didn’t do it for you. Guy was going to tear a new one into the eighth hole if I didn’t stop him. My dad would have a fit.”
Brienne flushed and closed her mouth. Jaime wasn’t sure if she wanted to scowl at him or cry, but he suspected it was mixture of the two. She hefted Hoat up on her shoulder and pushed past him. “Whatever,” she said, heading to the cart.
Daven followed and helped her lower Hoat onto the back seat. “Someone’s going to have to prop him up,” said Daven, watching Hoat slide slowly down the white vinyl.
“I’ll do it,” said Brienne, already pushing Hoat to one side. “Wouldn’t want pretty boy over there to get mangled again.”
Jaime gaped at her. He was used to stubborn censure and disapproval from Brienne, sometimes even sarcasm verging on wit, but open hostility was new. Brienne was too civil for that, too gracious and polite.
Daven honked the golf cart horn and told Jaime to get in. Brienne kept her back to them on the way back to the Club while Daven babbled about one of the clubhouse waitresses he was determined to seduce, his bushy yellow hair blowing in the wind. When Daven pulled the cart up in front of the clubhouse doors, Brienne lifted Hoat back up on her shoulder and looked pointedly at Jaime’s hand. “You should get that checked out,” she said and then left in the direction of the infirmary.
By the time Jaime had helped Daven put away the cart and close up the garage, Hoat and Brienne were both long gone. The infirmary nurse cleaned the wound on his hand and wrapped it in gauze and tape. She told him he’d have to refrain from playing for a few weeks until it healed, and Jaime tried not to grimace at that. He needed to play this summer, if nothing else, to qualify for the Westeros Golf Tour next May. It was his chance to get into a program that could take him into pro. He had the skill, but that skill included proper use of his hands. He tried not to think about what his father would say when he heard. A week was the same as a year in Tywin Lannister’s book.
Jaime slunk away from the infirmary and headed for the pro shop. Maybe Brienne was helping stock items in her righteous fury. But the shop was deserted, Asha playing computer games in the back of the storeroom while she waited for the bell over the door to ring. She glared at Jaime when he walked in and told him to fuck off with his Lannister nonsense. Jaime couldn’t fault Asha for the attitude, so he leaned his arms against the checkout counter and zoned out on an old Essos Cup tournament playing on the flat screen TV on the wall.
After about an hour, just when the Dothraki golf legend Khal Drogo hit his second birdie, the door opened and the bell rang. Jaime looked up. Tywin Lannister stood in the doorway, his face a mask of calm.
“My office,” he said. “Now.”
By some miracle of the Seven, Tywin did not rip Jaime a new one. He sat calmly in his fancy leather chair and stared at his wayward teenage son over a massive mahogany desk. Jaime explained how Hoat had gone berserk, the way he’d raised the club at Brienne before she took it away from him. He even told Tywin about her bandaging his hand and held up the injured appendage as proof.
“Brienne Tarth is a fine caddy,” Tywin allowed, “but from the sound of it, she had control of the situation. You have done nothing but set your practice back by several weeks.”
“What?” Jaime snorted. “That’s what you got out of it? That I won’t be able to play?”
The walls of Tywin’s office were lined with trophy shelves and framed certificates, proclaiming his skill as a one of the best golfers in Westeros. Everyone in golf knew the Lannister name, respected it, feared it. Jaime had grown up with the expectation that he’d follow in Tywin’s spiked shoes. Did a few weeks of practice really make that much of a difference to Jaime upholding the family legacy? He didn’t think so.
“He could have hurt seriously her,” was all he said.
Tywin raised an eyebrow. “And what concern of that is yours?”
“Besides it being basic human decency? It’s not,” said Jaime. “But she’s a talented player herself. What do you think her chances of going pro would be if she’d been all bloodied up by some nut job on the course?” Tywin crossed his arms and looked ready to dismiss Jaime, but he was on a roll now and nothing pleased him more than needling his overbearing father. “She could have sued you,” Jaime continued. “In fact, I probably saved this company from a lawsuit. I think you owe her a debt.”
Tywin’s mouth twitched. Jaime felt triumphant. He mimicked Tywin’s expression and then crossed his arms over his chest, too. After a moment of awkward silence, Tywin nodded his head toward the door. “You may leave,” he said. “We will talk to a physical therapist in the morning to see what exercises you can do to accommodate your injury.”
Jaime rolled his eyes and stood. “Thanks, Dad,” he said peevishly.
Brienne found him lounging on one of the outdoor sofas on the clubhouse patio. He was playing on his phone, texting memes to his little brother Tyrion and sipping a soda. The bartender, Bronn, wouldn’t give him any alcohol until the Club closed for the night. There were a few patrons still trailing in from the course, and they’d be sure to turn a judgmental eye on a seventeen-year old nursing a bourbon at the bar.
Brienne carried a bundle of golf towels in her arms, the red lion logo of Casterly Rock dotting the corner of each one. She had changed her ripped shirt, proving that she did, in fact, own multiple blue polos. Jaime eyed the intact hem of her new shirt resentfully and asked, “What’s up, Blue?”
“What’s up?” She kicked his legs with her foot, just hard enough to shift them off the sofa but not hard enough to hurt him. “Your dad just offered to sponsor me.”
Jaime sat up. “What?”
“Not only that, he said he’s going to write a letter to the King’s Landing University dean and recommend me for the women’s golf team.” Brienne smoothed her hand over the stack of towels, her fingers shaking. Her blue eyes were wide and confused. “What did you say to him?”
“I—” Jaime hesitated, just as baffled as she was that her father had been so… generous. “Nothing,” he said. “I didn’t say anything.”
She stared at him. “I don’t believe you,” she said. “You’re a lot of things, Jaime Lannister, but you’re not a liar.”
“What happened to Hoat?” Jaime asked, ignoring her observation.
“He went home?” Brienne sighed, “I don’t know. I didn’t feel like sticking around to see what my attacker would do when he woke up. One confrontation was more than enough.”
“I’m glad he didn’t hit you,” Jaime said. “Those clubs are probably still out there.”
Brienne twisted her mouth and then shook her head. She shifted the stack of towels in her arms. “I have to get back to work.”
Jaime watched her disappear around a corner of the clubhouse. He didn’t notice Bronn until the burly man plopped down on the sofa next to him. “Trouble in paradise?” He held out a tall glass filled with ice and coke and nodded in the direction Brienne had gone.
Jaime took the glass and sniffed it. “Jack and coke?”
Bronn shrugged. “Closest I could come without raising suspicion. Anyway, Daven told me about your new girlfriend. Doesn’t look like a particularly friendly one, but then the heart wants what it wants, I suppose.”
It took Jaime a moment to realize what Bronn was talking about. He sputtered. “She’s not my girlfriend! Brienne is—”
Bronn stood up, waving his hands weakly, “No, don’t trouble yourself on my behalf. I’ve seen the way you two look at each other. Pair of randy birds flitting around. Exhausting. Drives a man to drink.”
He winked and then moved back behind the bar. Jaime was left staring into the Jack and coke. What would his father say if he saw Jaime drinking on the job? What would Brienne say? The sun was just starting to set. The clouds had finally moved in, looking like squat bulldogs and growling with occasional thunder. The Club would close soon. The garden lights along the edge of the patio were little yellow halos. Jaime groaned at set the drink on a side table, un-touched.
Gods, he was going to kill Daven!
But his cousin was nowhere to be found. Jaime checked the changing room and the breakroom. Pia hadn’t seen him at reception, and Asha only rolled her eyes and told him, “Lannisters are the worst.”
Jaime jogged down to the cart garage, his last hope. In the distance, the driving range was lit with big white halogen lights. Jaime could hear the judder of the picker moving back and forth across the range, collecting balls as it went. A lone golfer stood silhouetted at one of the tees and lobbed balls toward the darkening sky. Each time he hit a ball, it sailed forth with a metallic ‘ting.’
The golf cart garage was dark, but the garage door was wide open. Daven was a worthless windbag, but he wasn’t negligent. Jaime called his name and stumbled through the dark garage until he found a found a switch. Florescent lights flickered overhead. Daven’s usual mess of energy drinks, empty chip bags and MP3 player had been cleared from the desk, and his jacket was gone from the hook on the wall. Jaime frowned at the rows of charging golf carts. No Daven here, either.
A stack of white golf towels on the floor near a wall caught Jaime’s eye. There should have been a golf cart where they were sitting, but it was gone. Jaime pushed them with the toe of his shoe. Little red lions glared back at him. Brienne. She’d probably gone back for the putters at the eighth hole.
Jaime wondered if he should look for Daven in the clubhouse next—he’d said something about seducing a waitress—when lightning flashed outside. Jaime poked his head out of the garage door. The sky overhead looked ominous. Thunder rumbled and heavy drops of water began to fall.
He cursed. Brienne probably hadn’t considered the possibility of a storm. She was too damn focused on work and practice and doing her best. Lightning flashed again. Jaime continued to list off her faults in his head. Stupid, stubborn, ugly—she could be electrocuted for Seven’s sake!
He turned and grabbed a set of keys for Cart Number Four from the wall. The cart was fully charged now, and its engine hummed when he turned the key in the ignition. He eased it into reverse, the petals clacking as he maneuvered it out of the garage. The driving range was empty now, but the clubhouse still winked gold and white through the rain.
Garden lights lined the cart paths around the clubhouse, but they petered out past the first tee. Jaime tried to remember how many hills and turns and doglegs it took to get to the eighth hole. Rain drummed on the roof of the cart. He squinted at the path, wishing carts came with wiper blades.
Jaime finally stopped the cart along a part of the path that looked familiar. Through a break in the trees, he caught a glimpse of the pale sand trap that looked eerily like his father. Up on the putting green, he could just make out the hulking grey shape of another cart. He pulled the key from the ignition and took off across the fairway. Lightning cracked overhead, and Jaime fell flat.
“Brienne!” He shouted, trying to make out any other object on the green besides the cart and the pin. “Blue!”
He slipped on the long, wet ryegrass and scrabbled onto the shorter grass on the green. Water pooled in the divots from Hoat’s temper tantrum. Jaime’s shoes squelched. The rain came down harder, drumming on the top of Brienne’s golf cart, and then Jaime saw her.
Brienne lifted her head from where she’d been slumped against the steering wheel. Jaime ran toward her, and she climbed out of the cart. “Jaime?”
She was okay. She was alive. She grunted when Jaime picked her up and spun her. She was muscular and heavy, soaked through by the rain. Her hair was plastered to her face and the stupid dirt streak was still on her cheek. Jaime set her down and wiped it off. “You’re really stupid, you know that?”
Brienne took a step back, looking surprised. “And you’re an asshole,” she said, clenching her fists. “No one asked you to come out here!”
Jaime threw his hands up, water spraying off his fingertips. He gestured to the cart and the pin, with its sad red flag hanging wet and limp. “What about you? No one asked you to come out here in the middle of a storm!”
Brienne glared. “It wasn’t raining when I started out!”
Lightning splintered overhead, and Jaime grabbed Brienne’s arm and pulled her off the putting green. They abandoned her cart and ran for the trees along the fairway. Brienne let him pull her along until they made it back to the cart track, and then she tugged her arm away from him.
“I thought I’d go back for the putters,” Brienne explained angrily. “You made such a big deal about your dad getting upset over what happened out there, I didn’t want to give him another reason to get mad.”
She huffed at the sight of his golf cart waiting for them and climbed in. Jaime scrambled in beside her but he didn’t turn it on. The vinyl seats squeaked beneath their wet bodies. “My wheels got stuck in the mud," she continued. "I couldn’t move the cart, so I thought I’d wait out the storm and just walk back.”
She paused and shook her head. “I really needed that sponsorship,” she whispered.
Jaime rubbed his face with his right hand and the damp bandage rolled and bunched. He frowned down at it. “My dad doesn’t care about Hoat or the turf,” he said. “I don’t—that’s not why I hit him, Brienne.”
“If you didn’t hit Hoat because he was ruining the green, then why did you?” Brienne watched him pick at his bandage. A flash of lightning made the freckles on her face glow. She looked up at him and Jaime realized how close they were sitting. “Why do you keep trying to rescue me?”
Her eyes really were amazing, big and blue. Like sapphires, Jaime thought stupidly and then, Seven, don’t say that aloud.
He wondered what it would be like to kiss her. He’d never wanted to kiss anyone before except Cersei, and that had been before he’d realized what a crazy mess she was. But Brienne wasn’t crazy. She was annoying. Pragmatic. Idealistic. Naïve. She made him look bad when they teed off together on the driving range. She was always nagging him to do better, be better. But that was a kind of crazy Jaime could deal with—liked, even.
And she did have nice lips.
He realized he was staring at them but Brienne didn’t seem to mind. She was moving into him, too, pulled by some force Jaime couldn’t name. Her face was hidden in shadow. Thunder grumbled overhead. Jaime moved his hand back on the vinyl seat to support his weight. His other hand came up; the hand he’d injured saving her. He slid his fingers over her neck, into her damp blond hair. Brienne let out a soft breath, waiting for him.
Why had he saved her?
A dozen quips and excuses came to mind, each one sounding lamer than the next, so Jaime only shrugged. “I’m into you,” he said and closed the distance between them.