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Loras latched onto Brienne after school, following her at a distance through halls, doorways, and crowds as she headed toward the sophomore lot. She took great pains to dodge him. It was obvious from the determination on his face that he’d talked to Renly, was maybe hunting her down for Renly, and she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing her angry and hurt.
He saw her see him, mouth turning sour when she ducked away from her car and zeroed in on a familiar vehicle idling by the sidewalk.
“Do you mind?” she asked through the open window.
Margaery glanced up from her phone and eyed her rearview, frowning at the sight of her brother standing halfway up the hill. She rolled her eyes at Brienne, pressed her painted pink lips in admonishment.
“You can’t ignore him forever,” the cheerleader told her, pushing open the passenger door so the larger girl could clamber in.
Brienne grunted. The seatbelt clicked under her hand as Loras disappeared from the side window.
Margaery let the conversation drop.
As the Bug pulled onto the road, Brienne focused on the breeze ruffling her hair across her forehead. Her knee jostled a nervous rhythm to the tune of the soft, sweet song whipping through the air with the wind.
The beat reminded her of waltzing. Of Jaime and Renly and Kyle, of boys she didn’t know grunting when she smashed their toes and girls she knew all too well giggling behind their manicures.
“Why are you worrying?” Margaery asked, as the car rocked to a rolling stop and kept going.
Brienne glanced back at the corner, scoring her teeth across the soft inside of her lip. Stop signs were there for a reason, but tell that to anyone of her acquaintance.
“You’ve gotten so much better.”
Brienne couldn’t tell if she was fishing for gossip, or simply waiting for Brienne to confirm what she already knew.
“I’ve been practicing,” Brienne muttered, scrubbing at a drop of dried coke on the armrest. Her fingers squeaked soothingly on the dents in the cool leather.
“Everyone knows you’ve been practicing,” Margarey grinned coyly, looking sideways through her lashes. “Mrs. Lannister publically canceled your extra sessions. What everyone doesn’t know,” her throat thrummed, amused and far too knowing, “Is how you’ve improved so quickly when you’re stiffer than a mannequin in Kyle’s arms.”
“I’m not – I can’t be with Kyle,” Brienne’s fingers drummed nervously beside the open window, the rushing air catching her sleeve in a frenzied dance. “He’s so – “
“Egotistical? Rude? Horny?” Margaery listed off, shrugged, “Teenage boy?”
Untrustworthy.
“How’s Robb Stark?” Brienne asked instead of answering. “He’s a good dancer, right?”
“Good,” Margaery evaluated, tilting her head to one side. “Straight-laced. Boring.”
“The Starks are nice,” Brienne defended, frowning.
Margaery turned to look at her, then smiled softly and took her hand from the wheel to pat Brienne’s knee.
“Of course, sweetie. He’s just not my type. Although,” her eyes sparkled with lighthearted fun, “he seems to be Jane’s.”
Brienne didn’t care much for cotillion gossip, even if she did like the Starks. Margaery filled her in, and Brienne stared out the window, dreading another afternoon spent in close proximity to Kyle Hunt. She daydreamed about dancing with Jaime instead, or hitting the rink and checking Kyle so hard his smarmy comments would stick in his throat. She wished she could see Jaime board Kyle like he’d boarded Ron.
Brienne had the feeling Margaery knew she’d lost her, but the girl didn’t complain, only nudged her toward the front door when they arrived at the country club.
The girls gravitated to their normal cluster, waiting for the tall, airy dance instructor to finish chatting with Mrs. Stark and Mrs. Lannister and the handful of cotillion coaches who were carefully skirting Mr. Baelish.
Mel’s Red Wings hair clashed with her Flyers orange dress pants, but no one mentioned it. She looked prettier than Brienne ever would, in casual red-and-hemp wedges and a breezy white top. Still, as Brienne surreptitiously glanced at Margaery’s flawless outfit and tried not to stare at Jaime in his pressed button-down, she was glad for the solidarity of one other person who didn’t look like they’d stepped out of a fashion ad.
“Has the beast found a beauty yet?” Mel wondered, not bothering to disguise the gesture indicating Cersei, who was laughing with Taena and a handful of other girls near the coaches’ table.
Prom was in 3 weeks, and it was all anyone could talk about. Even Jaime, who had proved a hundred times over that he didn’t care about court or crowns or coquettes, couldn’t help but throw in his 2 cents.
“Cersei’s dragging Bob as her date,” Jaime glanced over at his stepsister, irritation and amusement and a faint flicker of old wounds in his pretty green eyes. “She doesn’t really care that he’d rather be at a kegger.”
“Is that allowed?” Brienne furrowed her brows. “He’s in college.”
Jaime shrugged.
“Everyone remembers when he was prom king,” Margaery pointed out. “It’s not like he’s some creepy old pedo.”
“Not yet,” Jaime snorted.
Brienne shifted on her sneakers. She didn’t know Bob Baratheon, had only met him in passing at some party his brother dragged her to. He’d been wasted at the time, and his comments had walked a thin line between lewd and insulting.
“Mel’s going with Stannis,” Margaery informed them, giving the unnatural redhead a playful nudge.
Jaime shot her a disbelieving look.
“Dean of Discipline Stannis?”
The nickname rude, but apt. Stannis Baratheon made Brienne Tarth look like a rebel.
Mel wasn’t phased.
“The stars are aligning. He’s going to be president one day. Besides,” she kicked playfully at Margaery’s shoes, “We’re friends.”
“Never heard that before,” Margaery teased.
Mel laughed.
Brienne suddenly felt like the butt of a joke that had nothing to do with her.
“All hail the Baratheons,” Jaime deadpanned over the giggles. “Maybe they’ll all win prom king, and take the institution down with them.”
Mention of the youngest Baratheon was studiously avoided.
“Who’re you going with?” Brienne asked, careful to point her question to only Margaery.
“Oh, I’m going stag,” the pretty girl waved away the notion like a troublesome gnat. “I can’t work the crowd with some adorable dope hanging on my arm.”
Brienne wondered what it would be like to be so carefree, so wanted.
Exhausing, probably, she decided.
“You know if you win she’ll murder you in your sleep,” Jaime advised, more amiably than the words warranted.
Margaery tilted a shoulder. Her smile was equally unconcerned, even a little pleased.
“Cersei won’t win the battle or the war,” Mel looked fascinated by the prospect of a fight.
It kind of made Brienne want to curl up in some dark corner, to lose herself in a world where wars could be merry and ended with weddings.
“I’d ask you to prom.”
Kyle’s voice shook all the goodwill out of her system.
“If I were a junior,” he added, sidling up beside her.
Brienne sighed, digging her fingernails into her palm. It was the mildest response of the group, but Kyle seemed inclined to pretend Brienne was alone.
“Cotillion’s starting,” he pointed to the coach’s table, recently vacated by the dance instructor. The woman strode across the scuffed wood floor, spinning fluidly to a halt mid-room and clapping her hands to gain everyone’s attention.
Kyle grinned that grin that had made Brienne feel special, once. Now it filled her insides with writhing snakes.
“You’re mine for the next two hours.”
“And then you’ll have vomit in your hair to remember her by,” Mel folded her arms at him, unimpressed.
“I’ll break any bones Brienne doesn’t get to,” Jaime’s voice hovered between mockery and promise.
The class was falling to a hush, and his voice echoed low across the room.
“Civil tongues,” the instructor chided, shooting him a hard glare.
Brienne stared at Jaime, but he was frowning towards the tables, wrapped up in his stepsister’s expression. Above her red smile, that Lannister gaze promised swift retribution. Brienne tore her eyes from Jaime, stoutly meeting Cersei’s stare, and those determined green eyes flitted to the figure at Brienne’s side.
“M’lady,” Kyle offered his arm.
Brienne cast a last, furtive glance at Jaime before ignoring the proffered limb, stomping ahead of her partner to their usual corner.
“One of these days ‘hard to get’ isn’t going to work anymore,” Kyle grinned at her as they fell into position.
She steadied herself as his hand found her waist.
“I wish it wouldn’t work now,” she mumbled, cursing her tongue for tripping over itself.
Kyle glanced pointedly in the direction they’d just come, smirked up at her.
“That’s not how it seems to me,” he said mildly.
Brienne ignored the provocation, intent on the music drifting through the speakers. She moved her feet, almost bowling him over, but Kyle pretended that she was all elegance, letting her regain her footing with a well-timed turn.
He was a decent dancer, though not as good as Jaime or those other boys she wouldn’t mention. He couldn’t avoid her halfhearted footwork or ill-timed elbows, but he did manage to preserve the dance.
“I’d like to see you all dolled up,” Kyle said conversationally, two dances in. “Your face could almost be soft with some curls in your hair. Makeup to hide your freckles.”
It was the kind of ignorant, backhanded compliment Kyle was best at.
“We can’t do prom until next year,” he mused, “but there’s always the Midnight Bonfire after finals.”
The year-end bonfire was almost as synonymous with underage sex as prom was.
Brienne ground her teeth, feeling justifiably satisfied when her feet gained a will and tread on his own. Kyle winced, laughed, and Brienne set her mouth in a hard line, determined to ignore him.
“I always knew you liked it rough,” he hummed appreciatively, his wholesome face at odds with his words. “I’ve been known to leave a few love bites.”
He winked.
Brienne’s stomach churned.
“So have I,” her reply was acerbic.
Her short nails bit into the back of his hand, but Kyle didn’t seem phased.
“Oh, I remember,” he winked, rolling his arm in mock pain.
She dug her elbow into his ribs, hard enough to make him bruise.
He grinned through a grunt of discomfort.
Brienne’s eyes promised retribution if he opened that mouth again, and he—shockingly, blessedly—grew silent.
They drifted toward the center of the room, narrowly avoiding Ygritte and Arya’s half-brother Jon, who were, if anything, worse than Brienne and Kyle. Brienne concentrated on her feet, holding herself as far back as she could, taking care not to kick his shoes for her own sake as much as his.
From the corner of her eye, Brienne caught a blur of gold and red and couldn’t help but turn.
Jaime was watching them from Jane’s arms. When he saw Brienne looking he stopped boring holes through her partner to roll his eyes in exaggerated commiseration.
She laughed softly, mouth closed, breath hissing through her nose. The tense irritation she’d been fighting since Kyle arrived melted, replaced with a soft, warm feeling she could definitely get used to.
The lesson was almost over, and if the last few weeks were anything to go by, she’d have a good half hour to hang out with Jaime before his mom gathered him up for physio.
Jaime’s eyebrows rocketed up his forehead, and Brienne blinked as he hastily disengaged from his partner.
‘What – ‘ she started to mouth at him, but then her lips were thoroughly occupied.
Rigid anger quickly dissolved into that old, familiar panic, flooding her veins and coursing through her hammering heart.
It wasn’t Kyle’s hand on her this time, but his tongue. It squelched into her mouth like the goldfish schoolyard bullies had once tried to make her swallow, wriggling around her teeth and bringing up bile.
She bit down, tasted his blood sharp and bitter on her tongue.
His mouth jerked free, but he didn’t move away. His hands went for her hair.
“Get – off,” she grunted, shoving him away with shoulders and elbows and hips.
Kyle stumbled back, a spark of relish in his eyes as a lazy grin crept up his damp mouth. He licked his teeth with a swollen tongue, leaving red streaks across the white. His thumb brushed a fleck of blood from his lip, and he rolled it between his fingers as his eyes roved her mussed appearance.
She wanted to wipe that smugness from his face, but she couldn’t stand the thought of his lips on her hand, even for such a violent act.
“Afraid of a little PDA, are we, Brie?”
The only thing that could make the situation worse was Cersei Lannister’s mocking, melodious voice, coming from an angel’s smile.
“We save that for the bedroom,” Kyle laughed, as he pantomimed a video camera, zooming it in on Brienne’s mortified face.
Brienne screwed her eyes shut, ground her teeth against the bitter blood lingering on her tongue.
She heard whispers, quickly hushed giggles, and Cersei spoke again, sounding almost sweet.
“If only Victor Hoat knew that to Brienne, a bloody lip is foreplay.”
Tae cackled, ringing in Brienne’s ears, and titters echoed throughout the room like the rise and fall of waves.
It was too much. Hoat and Jaime and Kyle and Cersei, all running red through her head, bleeding through with the sweat on her face. The room felt claustrophobic, and her lungs expanded like she was breathing something liquid and invasive.
It was difficult to push through the throng of whispering debs, but Brienne wasn’t the biggest girl in school for nothing. She escaped with a gasp, pushing into bright sunlight through a service door hidden behind a ficus.
The cool air slapped her cheeks, sent numbing fingers down her neck. Brienne sent the doorstop soaring across the parking lot, savoring the hollow, empty finality of the door meeting its frame. She sucked in ragged breaths through her teeth, ignoring the ache of the balmy wind on the sensitive, exposed enamel.
She lowered herself to the edge of the tiny platform, maneuvering down with the railing until her feet dangled several inches off the pavement. Pressing her forehead to the rough wood, she let the scratch scratch scratch against her skin distract her from the repulsion and helplessness clawing at her from the inside.
That’s where Margaery found her ten minutes later.
The Tyrell folded her legs down, sweeping her feet up beside her in an effortless display of grace. Her ruffled mint dress rode up her thighs, snagging on the rough planks beneath her, but Margaery didn’t seem to mind.
“Kyle’s been banned from cotillion,” she announced conversationally, tracing a sightless pattern on the smooth, tan skin above her knee. “And Mrs. Lannister sent Cersei home.”
Brienne opened her mouth to say something scathing, something vengeful, but her chest hitched and what she said was, “His tongue was in my mouth.”
Margaery laughed, sympathetic and softly chiding.
“That’s not a bad thing,” she soothed.
Brienne risked a glance to glare at her in disbelief, and Margaery caught her gaze and caged it.
“It’s not,” she insisted. “As long as ‘he’ isn’t Kyle Hunt.”
Brienne recalled the sensation, her tongue swelling, the acid in her throat, and couldn’t quite believe her.
“You can’t let him ruin your life,” Margaery said simply. “Or Cersei wins.”
“If she wins will she leave me alone?” Brienne whispered, but her heart wasn’t in it. If she gave up, Cersei would just bulldoze over her next target, and the girl would have no one to blame but Brienne.
“No,” her friend’s response was honest.
Brienne nodded, staring out across the jumbled pattern of parked cars. The silence lengthened, heavy and taut. It felt like the air around her might snap.
Margaery opened her mouth, hesitated.
“What?” Brienne asked, raising her head to look at her.
“You can’t blame Loras for something his boyfriend did,” Margaery said, protective and pragmatic and patient. “I’m not your only friend.”
Brienne stopped thinking about Kyle for a minute, distracted by an image of Loras’s face. He had glared at her through every practice last year, but when she made first string, he’d smiled grudgingly and offered to train with her after hours.
He wasn’t dating Renly, then.
But he had to have known.
The door behind them squeaked open, and Margaery looked over her shoulder. She patted Brienne’s hand, then pulled herself to her feet and slipped through the open door.
Brienne didn’t have to look back to know who she’d find. The assurance was as alien as it was comforting.
“Hey,” Jaime greeted softly, letting the door click shut behind him. He levered himself down beside her.
Brienne scrutinized her dirty sneakers, hanging listless beside his red ones, set off by the black of the asphalt.
“Hey,” she mumbled back.
“You’re a hot mess,” he smiled ruefully, catching the curve of her lip with a knuckle.
Her skin flamed the length of his finger on her chin, a thumbprint under her jaw. She glanced down, feeling foolish.
Jaime’s hand came away smeared with red.
Disgust jolted through her as she realized Kyle’s blood was still on her. She scrubbed her chin furiously, tiny flecks of skin peeling off under her unyielding calluses.
“Careful,” he cautioned, furrowing his brows at her. “You’re rubbing the skin off.”
She flicked the evidence off her fingertips; gathered up the moisture in her mouth, spit a wad as far as she could across the black sea beneath their feet.
Jaime swiped his stained hand on his dress pants, and Brienne almost managed a smile.
“Thanks.”
It was horrifying to realize that her voice was thick and wet. Her eyes were stinging, too, and she sniffed back the wave of weakness.
“His face is more swollen than yours,” Jaime offered, glancing away from her.
She lay back against the wooden loading dock, hoping gravity would take care of her tears.
“Good.”
“I wish you’d had your hockey stick,” the lightness in his voice couldn’t quite mask the incense he felt. “Then he’d be swollen below the neck, too.”
“I couldn’t –“ she tried to explain, and Jaime peeked down at her, looked quickly away.
“I know.”
She looked up at the sky, watching clouds haze up the sun.
Jaime started talking, regaling her with the exact degree of incredulity on Cersei’s face when his mom pulled her aside to dress her down. He was rambling to fill the silence, so Brienne listened to his voice rather than his words, eyes caught with the breeze rustling through his hair, sunlight melting through the gold.
Light glinted oddly off his cast, and Brienne scrutinized the red plaster.
“Is that blood?” she hauled herself up, snatching his fingers to pull his injured arm closer.
Jaime cut his story short, glancing down at his cast as if he’d forgotten.
“I bludgeoned Kyle,” he admitted.
Brienne dropped his hand as if he’d seared her.
“You what?”
“Guy’s an asshole,” Jaime’s mouth formed a hard line; weak fingers tightened into a fist. “He deserved it.”
“But . . .” Brienne was having trouble articulating her feelings. “Your arm.”
“Worth it.”
Brienne goggled at him, and he raised an eyebrow pointedly.
What else would I have done? it said, clear as day.
“Is – is Kyle okay?”
Jaime’s expression darkened.
“Is Kyle okay?” he snapped.
Brienne realized how that must have sounded, backtracked.
“Your mom – “
“Raised me to defend a lady’s honor,” he said, rough and sardonic.
“You can’t just go around hitting people,” she lectured. Her fingers traced the dark spot on his cast, coming up wet. “What if he has a concussion? What if you get suspended?”
“Says the girl who beat up Victor Hoat for me,” Jaime muttered, glaring at a hazy point on the horizon.
“I just – “ her head felt disjointed, pulled in too many directions.
Suddenly, Brienne was so tired. She wanted it all to be over.
“Thanks.”
She let the fight bleed out of her, pressing her forehead into his shoulder and sighing against the thin cotton of his shirt.
Jaime looked down at her, startled and concerned.
Brienne imagined there was some strange tenderness creeping into his expression. She pressed her eyes closed and they sat in uncomplicated silence, listening to the faint strains of music drifting out to them from the ballroom.