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Meera Reed in her baggy denim cut-offs and dark green flannel shirt is more beautiful than twenty Myrcella Baratheons in sparkling pink dresses.
And Bran tells her so.
She laughs, shaking her head like he’s told her a joke, “Why aren’t you at prom?”
He shrugs, wheeling himself into the small, homey family room, pausing to breathe in the smell of the Reeds’ indoor herb garden. Meera and Jojen’s parents are cuddled on the sofa watching an old film and they both smile at Bran when they notice him in the doorway.
“You look very handsome, Brandon,” Jyana winks from her husband’s side. Bran stammers a bashful thank you, and follows Meera to the kitchen, her parents’ laughter ringing behind him.
“You do look nice,” Meera says as they settle around the table, trying not to scrape her chair on the wood floor when she moves closer to him, “but I feel like your suit is being wasted on me.”
They sit for a moment in silence, Bran staring at the table and Meera staring at him, until he feels a tug on his collar.
“Nice bowtie,” she grins at him, running her fingers over the navy silk—the very same one Robb had bought for his own prom years ago, “I’m assuming Myrcella’s pink dress didn’t go so well with it?”
He smiles as her hand drops back to the table, fingers tapping rhythmically as she waits for his answer.
“No, she wanted me to wear white—” he cuts himself off and stares quizzically at his friend, “how did you know what color her dress was?”
Meera bites her lip, and then mumbles something Bran can’t quite understand, but he manages to catch the word “Facebook.”
He stares at her a moment, usually unabashed Meera Reed still chewing on her bottom lip and determined not to look at him, and then he starts laughing.
She frowns at him, shoving his shoulder with both hands, “It’s not funny.”
“You don’t even have a facebook!” he says, grabbing at her small hands as they attempt to shove him again, “What were you doing on there?”
She bristles, her wild hair becoming as indignant as her mood, and snatches her hands away, “my mother had it open.”
“I was curious,” She tucks a few strands of hair behind her ears, and then picks at dried food on the tabletop—her nervous habit of not being able to keep her hands still, “That isn’t a crime.”
Bran nods, because, she’s right, it isn’t anything incriminating. And it certainly doesn’t have to have another meaning—even though he wishes that it did. It would be nice to have her admit to being a bit envious of Myrcella, or maybe to say that she wanted to see him all dressed-up in his suit, but he knew she never would.
“So,” Meera’s hands are no longer fidgeting, previous agitation forgotten for now, “are you going to tell me why you’re here instead of with Cinderella at the ball?”
“I didn’t want to go with Myrcella,” Bran glances over to gauge his friend’s reaction, but her face just reads confusion.
“Why not?”
He sighs, his fingers tugging his tie loose—he had begun to suffocated several moments prior, “I mean, she’s a great girl and everything, but….”
He can practically hear Robb in his head at this point, advising his younger brother to forgo honor for once and do as he wanted. “You only have one prom,” Robb had said, expertly tying the bow around Bran’s neck, “you should spend it with who you want, not who your sister sets you up with.”
And, yet, he had still gone to the dance with Myrcella, even let her drag him around on the floor as he held her as far away as he could without seeming rude. She really was a sweet girl, just like Sansa had promised, and she didn’t become angry when Bran told her he needed to leave. In fact, she kissed his cheek and wished him luck, as if she knew where—and who—he was headed towards.
“Bran?”
Meera’s fingers lace through his, her marsh-green eyes gazing curiously at him, and he shakes all thoughts of the prom out of his head.
“Myrcella wasn’t…she wasn’t,” he stumbles over his words, sure that the phrasing could be better, could be a more profound confession—something Sansa would approve of. Robb had just told him to speak honestly, though, and his sister’s idea of flowery poetry wasn’t the way Bran felt.
He starts over, his heart pounding so loudly in his ears that he almost can’t hear the words coming out of his mouth, “Myrcella isn’t you.”
Meera’s fingers tighten around his, almost reflexively, and she breathes out as if she’d been holding it in in preparation for shocking news.
And, then, she laughs.
She laughs until she snorts, her hands leaving his and shooting up to her mouth to cover more giggles.
He just stares, blinking at her strange reaction, “What about this is funny?”
She shakes her head, that ubiquitous smile on her lips, dark hair falling in her face as she reaches up to grasp the lapel of his jacket, “You really don’t know, do you?”
His eyebrows furrow and he opens his mouth to question her—only to find his lips otherwise occupied.
He takes a few seconds to recover from shock, and then scoots forward in his chair, knees touching hers, until he can bury his fingers in her hair like he had always wished. There isn’t a spark or some magical feeling like Sansa would say there should be. It simply feels right.
Her mouth molds to his naturally, no loud smacking like Arya and her boyfriend, and no fire-fueled caresses like Robb and Theon. When they separate there is no heavy breathing, just hidden smiles and Meera softly punching his shoulder, scolding him for not telling her sooner.
The sound of someone’s throat clearing comes from behind him, and Bran, once again, turns to see Meera’s parents with their arms around one another, watching the pair through amused eyes.
“Our movie was getting a little boring,” Howland supplies as explanation, a small grin threatening to show on his lips, “good thing there’s another show in the kitchen.”
Meera immediately groans and mumbles something about privacy while her mother chuckles, leaning down to ruffle Bran’s hair—
“I always knew a wolf would snatch up my daughter.”
Bran glances over at Meera, her father attempting to make her laugh while she glares at him unsuccessfully, a smile slipping through her annoyed façade. He can feel his own smile forming as Howland Reed tickles his daughter’s sides until she shrieks with laughter, the sound strangely beautiful to Bran’s ears.
“You’re wrong,” he says, turning back to Jyana, “it’s me that’s caught in her snares.”