Author's Note: For the JBO 100,000 post extravaganza. My prompt was, "This contest isn't going to rig itself."
Thanks to Mikki (ikkiM) for her, as always, excellent beta services :)
Dedicated to AsbestosMouth, because everything should be dedicated to AsbestosMouth.
Title taken from "Searching" by Luther Vandross: "Just came by here by chance/Only wanted to dance.../Taken back by surprise/What's in front of my eyes/This girl in love's disguise."
Brienne Tarth was having a much better time at Tysha's and Tyrion's engagement party than she had expected. She'd wanted to enjoy it, of course, but having heard the groom's tales of woe regarding various of his family's less pleasant members, she'd harbored no real hopes of it being anything but drudgery. Fortunately, the joint was jumping and smiles abounded thanks to an excellent band and Tyrion's insistence on a lavishly stocked bar. It was going well, if she said so herself, being Tysha's second-in-command in organizing it.
She and Tysha had gravitated to each other as classmates in college, both being quiet and studious. They'd become and remained the closest of friends in the intervening years, and when Tysha had announced her engagement to one Tyrion Lannister, of course Brienne volunteered whatever talents she might possess in the way of planning the celebration.
She hadn't been thrilled with the idea of a scavenger hunt at an engagement party but it was what Tysha wanted so, as a loyal friend and the maid of honor, Brienne resigned herself to racking her brain for things the guests could find, only to learn that the bride was adamant about Brienne participating, too, and she had kept the details a deep, dark secret. The only thing that Tysha had permitted Brienne to see was the list of who she'd paired with whom, a carefully thought-out arrangement for maximum congeniality and, if Tysha got her way, some romantic matches made along the way.
The party was taking place in the vast orangery of the Lannister's ancestral home, Casterly Rock, and the scent of growing things and tropical fruits scented the air with an exotic perfume. It was spangled around the edges with fairy lights, giving the place an ethereal feel that was only enhanced by the lingering glances of adoration shared throughout the evening by the future bride and groom. Utterly enchanted with each other, Tysha and Tyrion would have been sick-making except that they were wonderful people who richly deserved such mutual adoration after lifetimes of difficulty and, on occasion, flat-out misery.
The entire evening felt touched by magic, the lingering sense of surreality punctuated by the continued presence of Tyrion's older brother, his best man, at Brienne's side. As maid of honor and best man, they had been tossed together at the main table with Tysha and Tyrion and their parents. Tysha's family were darlings who'd give the blue collars off their backs for strangers in need, and who trembled in terror every time the Lannister patriarch so much as twitched an eyelid.
Since his sons were in rare form that night, the eyelid of that very patriarch was twitching quite often.
Tywin Lannister was a human-shaped amphibian with the expression of a man carefully holding a turd in his mouth. He never frowned when he could sneer, and he could sneer a lot, particularly at his youngest son but occasionally at the eldest when Jaime let fly some sort of thinly-veiled insult, usually after Tywin had made a disparaging comment about Tyrion or his bride. Brienne amused herself the entire second course by imagining shooting Tywin from a cannon to the surface of the sun.
She had never met Jaime Lannister before. The man was a charmer, a motormouth, a hyperactive rogue with an uncertain moral compass and, as Brienne saw when he doffed his suit jacket and went to get a drink at one point, the best ass the gods ever granted a mortal.
He seemed completely unaware of the bounty granted him. Ass, hair, face, height, fitness, wit, wealth, birth: Jaime had superlative versions of all, and a spectacular absence of appreciation for any of it. He also had, Brienne was forced to concede, an excellent sense of the ridiculous, an easygoing temperament, an unfairly appealing smile, and a devotion to his brother that almost made her uncomfortable in its fervency. This was a man who loved not often, but hard. She decided she liked him.
When it came time for the guests to check the list to see who'd they'd been paired with, it was Brienne's job to present it to the unruly masses. She scanned it curiously to see who was teamed together, then made a tweak to Tysha's arrangements, and handed the clipboard off to the first guest who approached.
When Jaime stepped up, he squinted down at the list until he found his name. "Brienne Tarth?" He glanced up from the clipboard to her. "Isn't that you?"
"Yep!" she said, feeling cheerful after her third sea breeze- Tyrion had instructed the bartenders to be generous with their pours- even if Jaime had forgotten her name. Again. "As soon as everyone's paired up, we can get started." She nodded to where Tysha was handing out the item lists. "Go grab one, I'll be done soon."
And she was. By the time Jaime had returned to her, she'd been able to discard the clipboard and was ready for him.
"This doesn't make any sense," he grumbled, glaring at the paper as he handed it to her.
a motor's hum
a tempest in a teapot
time sands standing still
a birthmark on a crow's foot
light years
a pocket watch
Tysha has either lost her mind or had a religious epiphany, Brienne thought with a faint grin. The items were ludicrous.
"I'm glad you can find some humor in this," Jaime grumbled, shoving a hand through his hair, leaving it disheveled. His tie was askew, too. She felt a powerful urge to tidy him, and wondered if she had a comb tucked into the tiny clutch bag Tysha had insisted Brienne use with her reluctantly-donned dress.
"Should I cry, instead?" she asked him.
His attention, ever leaping about, slowed to focus on her. Brienne had no illusions about the appeal of her looks, so she only wondered which adjectives he was using to mentally describe the tragic collection of features that made up her face. His gaze narrowed, flicked upward to where the fairy lights swooped overhead, then back down to stare into her eyes like he was trying to figure out what planet she'd arrived from.
"No," he murmured at last, "don't cry. It'll make me cry, too, and I'll be doing enough of that at the wedding."
He grinned, but she didn't think he was joking; she had a crystal-clear vision of him snuffling into a hankie as his brother and Tysha said their vows, and couldn't stifle her own grin. It startled him and he blinked but recovered quickly.
"Well, this contest isn't going to rig itself. We'd better get moving."
"Why would someone bother to rig a scavenger hunt? At an engagement party? And how would it even be done?" Brienne shook her head. "It seems far too much effort to compromise one's honor to win a game at an engagement party."
He quirked a brow at her. "And when should one put in such effort and compromise one's honor?" he responded in a mocking tone.
Brienne looked up through the branches of the trees, through the glass roof and up at the moon. "Only when it's something earth-shatteringly important."
He just rolled his eyes. "Got any ideas where to start?"
"We've already got one right here." At his quizzical look, she touched a fingertip to the tiny mole at the corner of his eye. He jolted a little, blinking again, but she only said, "Birthmark on a crow's foot."
As comprehension passed over his face, he gave a rueful smile. "At least my old age is good for something."
"Yes, you're ancient," agreed Brienne, turning to move toward the door where the rest of the guests had begun an exodus in pursuit of the items. "Maybe we can make the clicking of your knees, when you go upstairs, count for 'motor's hum'."
"Ouch!" he said with a bright grin, unbothered in the slightest. His hands were buried in his pockets, making his fine-tailored shirt strain around his broad shoulders. Then he leaned to the side, bumping one of those shoulders into her own. "I'm still young enough to do all the important things, though."
"Oh?" Brienne feigned a lack of comprehension of his meaning. "Like what? Nothing that'll strain your poor back, I hope."
He gave her a look both derisive and amused. "Like pushing my walker around the nursing home, of course."
"Gumming your pureed beets," suggested Brienne, smiling skyward at the constellations dotting the heaven, like fairy lights had been strung up there, too. She was aware that the cocktails had put her in a more relaxed state than she normally might have been. It was wonderful. She should drink more often, maybe.
When she looked back at Jaime, it was to find him studying her with a line of perplexity between his eyes. "You have a leg up on everyone else, you know," she told him. "This is your home. You know where things are. Have access to all areas."
"True!" His face lit up as he realized that gaming the hunt was going to be far easier than he had thought. "You sure lucked into having me as a partner," he continued, steering her toward a discreet door into the main house. His hand was warm at the small of her back. "Lannisters always win, you know."
"Hm, yes," murmured Brienne. "I feel very lucky indeed." He slanted her a glance, smirking at her sarcasm, and his nudge to get her inside was perhaps a little more forceful than it needed to be.
Inside was clearly a workroom and storage area. Jaime led her through it to a staircase, where— yes— his knees clicked the first few steps as they climbed. He stoically ignored her faint huff of laughter, though the glint in his eyes promised retribution.
Through a door, across a hallway, and they were in a massive kitchen. It boasted a soot-stained fireplace that could have roasted a whole ox, and row upon row of gleaming copper pots and pans. The range could have served as a funeral pyre in a pinch, and a ten-year-old could have comfortably bathed in the sink. She was a little disappointed Tysha had insisted on having the party catered; it would have been something to see the place in full swing, a dozen cooks stirring and whipping and slicing, red-faced and shouting, heady smells thick in the air as a film of grease settled on everything.
"No servants?" she asked, since the place was as empty as a tomb.
"They misbehaved so we have them chained in the mine under the house." He waited a beat, grinning at her surprised face, before explaining, "They're working the party, since nothing's happening over here." Jaime rummaged in a cupboard and came out bearing something in triumph. "Here's the teapot," he announced. "Just need to make a tempest in it."
"A mixer?" she suggested, but he shook his head.
"Can't rely on electricity in the orangery, and it's a bit much to have to plug in and run an extension cord…"
"Do you have something that can stir water around but doesn't need to be plugged in?"
He stared at her a moment, eyes blank in contemplation, and then he grinned. "Yes! And it can serve as the motor's hum, too."
"And your knees will preserve their dignity," she commented, earning her another eye-roll from Jaime.
They exited the kitchen into a hallway crimson with plush carpeting and damask wallpaper, gilded with carved consoles along the walls and lavish with vases of fresh flowers and objets d'art designed to awe rather than edify. The overwhelming impression was of stifling opulence and Brienne felt herself becoming claustrophobic. There was no air in this place. It felt like drowning in velvet. She reconsidered her stance on drinking more often; it wasn't as good an idea as she had previously thought.
"You okay?" Jaime asked her as they crossed a sumptuously appointed foyer and started up a grandly-curved staircase to yet another story. He looped the handle of the kettle over his arm and reached to take her elbow. His eyes reminded her of the green living things in the orangery, fresh and exhilarating, and suddenly she could breathe again.
"Yes, thank you," she said formally, making him grin.
"So polite," he murmured, and it was her turn to roll her eyes.
Somewhere on the first floor, a door slammed, and then Brienne heard laughter: other scavengers were trying their luck in Casterly's main house.
"Up here," Jaime whispered, "we can't let them see us," and instead of heading down a hallway on the second floor, he preceded her around a corner to another, smaller staircase spiraling up. On the third floor, they headed toward a door at the far end of the corridor.
"Where are we going?" she asked, curious as the ostentation of the rest of the place faded into something simpler, plainer, both lighter and darker. Gone were the rich colors and bright oaks and antique furniture and gilded ancestral portraits of below; this story was white walls and walnut floors and clean modern pieces and frameless canvases of water and sky.
Then she answered herself. "Ah, this is where you live."
He stopped to turn and look her in the face. "Why do you say that?"
"It feels like you," she replied, simply because it did. It spoke of a yearning for space and freedom and uncomplicated lines as clearly as if Jaime had shouted it.
He stared at her a moment longer before turning away, his smirk following a moment later. "You don't know how I feel," he said. "You haven't felt me yet."
"The night is still young," she replied distractedly, because he had led her through a door into what was clearly his bedroom. It smelled woodsy and clean, and there was a big bed with fat pillows and white sheets turned down. Moonlight streamed through tall uncurtained windows to fall in butter-yellow bars across the mattress.
Jaime didn't bother switching on the lights, just disappeared through a door on the far wall, returning almost immediately brandishing an electric toothbrush. "Voilà!" he announced. "Waterproof, will thrash the water around a bit." He noticed her fixation on the bed. "Sleepy? We don't have time for a nap right now, sorry."
"Just comparing it to where they have me," she replied, though that wasn't strictly true. "My room looks like something out of a Jane Austen book." Though fortunately not all red-and-gold like the rest of Casterly Rock, merely pink-and-yellow. "I expect Mrs. Bennett to flutter in complaining about her nerves at any moment."
"Just be glad you're not stuck with a chamber pot," he told her soberly. "They only put indoor plumbing in the guest house ten years ago." Eyes wide, she stared at him, unable to tell if he were joking or not, and he stared back, stone-faced. She'd just begun to believe him when he grinned. "Had you going, there."
"Did not," she grumbled, and followed him back out of his room. "Where to next?"
Jaime dug the list from his pocket and examined it. "Time sands standing still, light years, and a pocket watch." He looked up from it to Brienne. "I don't know about the others, but my father has a pocket watch. Problem is, he usually has it on him." He sighed. "We can check his room, though, on the off-chance he didn't wear it tonight. Unlikely though. I believe my father sleeps in a three-piece suit. He might, as a concession to comfort, loosen his tie or remove his cufflinks."
She couldn't help a smile, at that, and he gave every evidence of delight at having amused her. Flushing a little, she followed him down a flight of stairs, down a hallway, and entered a suite of rooms that was strangely similar to Jaime's in their sparseness. She began to feel odd, invasive, at the idea of entering Tywin Lannister's private room and only hovered in the doorway, peering curiously inside.
The colors were still the usual Lannisterian scarlet and gold, and there were more lions carved all over than you could shake a stick at, but… nothing covered the hard gleam of the wood floor, nothing softened the glass expanse of the windows, and despite the ornateness of the huge canopied bed, it bore a simple spread with modest number of pillows. Unlike the clean serenity of Jaime's room, however, it felt like joyless austerity.
The walls were naked save for a single portrait in a narrow modern frame, the subject of which intrigued Brienne enough to overcome her reticence and step within.
"Oh," she said, going to stand before it, chin tilted up at where it held pride of place over the mantel. "Your mother."
Jaime left off scoping every surface to come stand beside her, hands in pockets, gazing up at the portrait. "Not my sister?"
"No." She surveyed it further. She understood why some might believe its subject to be the family's firstborn— the resemblance was uncanny— but… "That's your smile, not Cersei's." She hadn't had the bad fortune to spend much time in his sister's company, and the woman had, thankfully, refused to attend any of the wedding festivities, but what time Brienne had spent with Cersei made her appreciate the superior enjoyment of a root canal.
When she drew her gaze from Mrs. Lannister to her son, it was to find him watching her. With the moon at his back, Jaime's face was thrown into shadow, only a faint silvery sheen glancing off his temple, his cheekbone, the upper curve of his ear.
He smiled at her again, but it was puzzled, like he was having trouble figuring her out, and she supposed maybe he was. Brienne was well aware she was an acquired taste. She never expected anyone to acquire it, so she was always happily surprised if they did. She had no expectations about Jaime acquiring anything at all.
"The watch isn't here," he said, "so it must be on him. If you've any skill at it, we could try to pickpocket him, but he would have no qualms about having you arrested if you were caught, engagement party or no. And I have no idea where else we might find a different one."
She shrugged. "We're not doing badly so far. If that's all we lack, we still might win."
"An optimist!" he announced as they continued on their hunt, shutting the door behind them. "I've been thinking… sand standing still… isn't glass made out of sand?"
"Silicon, yes," Brienne said, seeing where he was going with it. "Smart thinking."
He beamed at her, pleased with the praise, and she was put in mind of a golden retriever delighted to have performed a trick correctly for his master. Without really thinking about it, she reached out and ruffled his hair.
"What was that for?" he pretended to complain, fingers combing through it to restore a semblance of order.
She shrugged. "You looked like you needed to be rumpled."
"You're a strange woman." It didn't seem to bother him overmuch, however.
Brienne didn't deny it, only said, "Do you have any old glass?"
"Old glass?"
"Glass so old that it's gone wavy," she clarified. "Or a mirror with the silvering flaking off. Something implying the passage of time."
His face lit in comprehension. "There's a hand mirror like that!"
Spinning, they retraced their steps toward Tywin's room but entered the door next to his, stepping into what could only have been termed a boudoir. The styles were the same timeless antiques of the rest of the place— save Jaime's rooms— but the fabrics were dated, relics of thirty years ago. The faintest trace of a floral perfume lingered, however, even after all that time.
Jaime's face, as he looked around, was sad. He noticed her watching him and offered a faint curve of lips, not really a smile. "We'll have to be very careful with it," he said. "If it breaks…"
Brienne noticed it on top of a dressing table in the corner. "No, we can't risk it," she said, unwilling to put something so precious to him in peril, and withdrew her phone. Quickly, she found her camera app and took a photo of the mirror. Age-spotted, clearly ancient, it would work well for a symbolic effort. She showed the photo to Jaime, who looked relieved they wouldn't have to take their lives in their hands to bring it back to the orangery.
"What's next?" he asked, scrutinizing the list once more. "Light years and a pocket watch."
"The pocket watch is on your father, who is already there, so that one's done," Brienne said. "Maybe you can ask him the time and I can take a photo of him taking the watch out?"
"Except that vampires don't show up in photos- the watch would be floating in mid-air, but no Tywin," said Jaime with a smirk.
She tried to hide her smile but, if the widening of that smirk of his were any indication, failed miserably. Pressing her lips together, she tried to be stern and point him back to the topic at hand. "So… light years."
He tilted back his head and closed his eyes, hard at work thinking. The purity of his profile was magnetic to Brienne, irresistible to look at. She wondered what it said about her, to be so ugly herself yet so susceptible to beauty in others. "What if…" he began, retaining his odd posture, "what if… light years. Starlight… how long it takes for light to travel from the stars that shine it to us here…"
She understood where he was going with it. "Yes," she said. "We can just point through the orangery's glass roof to the sky. That's brilliant."
His smile was reminiscent of that starlight, almost feeling like it was brightening the dim room in which they stood. She reached up and mussed his hair again.
"I needed more rumpling, huh?" Once more he tried to fix what she'd done, with the same lack of success as the first time.
Brienne opened her clutch and rummaged around to find, yes, she had remembered a comb. She went to hand it to him, but changed her mind and ran it through his hair herself. She could feel the shining strands against her fingertips as she worked, soft and smooth, a shampoo ad come to life.
"You rumple me, but then you fix me back up," he complained. He sounded baffled, almost irritated, and his gait was nearly a stomp as he left his mother's room. "What's the point?"
"I got to enjoy rumpling you, and then fixing you back up," she replied placidly as she caught up to him and they moved up the hall. "Isn't that enough of a point?" He just stared at her, his expression saying you are crazy as loudly as if he'd spoken the words. "And besides, it's not so much a rumpling as it is a petting."
"You're… petting me? Why?"
They started down the long sweep of stairs to the foyer. "I like golden retrievers."
He was silent for a long, protracted moment. Then, in a tone of pure outrage, "You're calling me a golden retriever?"
His offense was so pronounced that she couldn't help laughing, then laughing more at the affronted expression he aimed at her.
"I remind you that I am a Lannister," he said, very sternly, "and Lannisters are lions."
"Sometimes, maybe, you're a lion," Brienne allowed. "Sometimes."
"All of the time," he growled, and she had to admit that he did sound very leonine at that moment.
"I'm sure you have moments when you pounce and are deadly," she conceded, smiling to see him become mollified before adding, "and when you sleep all day or bat at things dangling overhead."
Jaime scowled again. "That's a housecat," he grumbled. "I'm a lion."
"But I would bet money there are far more times when you chase your own tail and get muddy and make a fool of yourself to make others happy and protect the ones you love with your life." Brienne stopped and looked him full in the eye. "That's a golden retriever."
He seemed to have no reply to that, no come-back or denial, and how could he? She was right. She knew she was right, just as well as she knew the sea was as green as his eyes, and that she would go home to Tarth in the morning and think about him far too much in the intervening months until she saw him again at the wedding.
"Well, what about you?" he demanded, belligerent, apparently giving up on arguing the point. They began to walk again, leaving the house by the same door through the storage room to exit onto the plush lawn. "What kind of dog are you?"
Brienne didn't answer right away, but Jaime seemed content to let her take her time. In the distance, the orangery sparkled, an enchanted little wonderland. Music was a gentle suggestion emanating from within, punctuated by the tinkle of glassware and laughter. The air had cooled deliciously in the time they'd been inside, and the stars wheeled overhead in the clear night.
"I'm more of a bear, really," she said at last. "I like berries and honey, and I like to sleep more than anything, and I will fuck up anyone who hurts what I love."
He laughed, head back. It made the crow's feet at his eyes— both the one with the birthmark and the other one— crinkle. Brienne couldn't suppress a smile.
"All good characteristics," he said, smile flashing, and she felt such a warm pleasure at his approval that she reached up and mussed her own hair. It seemed she could be a bit like a golden retriever, too.
As they reached the orangery, Tysha was calling for all the scavengers to come forward and present their bounties. There were all manner of attempts to fulfill the requirements- one pair had plunked a copy of The Tempest into a teapot pilfered from the caterers; another had tried to present a light bulb and a calendar for 'light years", a third had stolen the little plastic hourglass from a game of Boggle and stuffed a wristwatch into their breast pocket- but no one came close to the ingenuity and creativity shown by Brienne and Jaime. And when he gestured to his father with a flourish to indicate where the pocket watch might be found, she couldn't hold back a giggle at the sour expression on the amphibian's face.
"Why is he so…," Brienne trailed off when it was over and everyone took their seats, dessert having been promised once all the guests had cleared the aisles between tables for the servers to pass through.
"So…?" Jaime prompted. He spread his napkin over his lap, then surprised her when he took hers from the table and laid it across her thighs, but she had been busy pouring a cup of coffee for him from the shared carafe in the center of the table, so perhaps it was just reciprocation.
"So awful," she finished, handing him the coffee. "He's just so awful."
"I don't know," said Jaime thoughtfully, studying the chocolate mousse as it was placed before him. He plucked the artful array of raspberries from its surface and dropped them, one by one, onto Brienne's just as she lifted her spoon for a bite. "He hasn't been the same since Mother died, that's certain. I can't say as I blame him. If I lost the love of my life, I doubt I'd be anything but awful, too."
He carefully did not meet her gaze, but there was a sweet little flush across his cheekbones that made her smile. When he peeked sideways and found her eyes on him, he aimed his attention to his mousse and steadfastly concentrated on eating it, not looking up again until the crystal bowl was scraped clean.
"Good?" he asked her, watching as she popped the last raspberry into her mouth with a bit more attention than it perhaps warranted, but she wasn't complaining.
"Best I ever had," she replied. "Raspberries don't grow on Tarth so it's always a treat to have them."
"What else doesn't grow on Tarth?"
"You'll have to visit and see for yourself."
"I should," he agreed easily. "When would be a good time, do you think?"
"It's nice there year-round," said Brienne. "Something good about each season."
"When will you be there next?" Jaime was fidgeting with his dessert spoon, standing it on end, letting it fall, catching it before it hit the table.
"Tomorrow," she replied. "I'm flying back in the morning."
"Hm," he said, about to say more, but Jeyne Westerling, another bridesmaid, scurried over.
"Brienne!" she exclaimed. "We need you! We can't decide where to take Tysha for her bachelorette weekend!"
Brienne wasn't best thrilled to have to congregate with a half-dozen giggly women but she suppressed a groan and stood.
"See you later," Jaime said lightly. She touched his shoulder, there-and-gone, before heading across the room.
She wasn't gone a minute before the bride approached him, clipboard in hand.
"Jaime," said Tysha, "you did amazing with Brienne, but…" She squinted down at the list. "I could have sworn I paired you up with Alysanne Lefford. She's a nice girl, I thought you'd like her."
"Oh?" said Jaime, supremely uninterested, his attention on Brienne where she stood across the room, a gentle smile curving her lips as her fellow bridesmaids chattered excitedly around her. The band began to play a lilting tune, peppy but not too athletic.
"And Brienne…" Tysha continued. "I had her with Addam Marbrand." She stuck the clipboard in front of his face. He gave it a glance and went back to watching Brienne.
The other bridesmaids were a bouquet of hothouse flowers, petite and lovely, but she was a tree in their midst, tall and indomitable, and they all gravitated toward her, faces turned up as if toward the sun. He wondered what it would take to get her to dance with him.
"Is that right?" he murmured.
"Yes, don't you think they'd be a nice couple?"
"Not particularly." It was delivered with a smile that managed to be both bland and sharp at the same time. She raised her eyebrows; he just shrugged at her. "I don't know what to tell you. I read the list, saw her name by mine, and that was it."
That made her grin. "Okay," she said, and seemed far happier than before. "Well, I'd better join Tyrion, wherever he is."
After she was gone, a server came by, offering more coffee. Jaime took a refill of his own, and one for Brienne, doctoring them both the way he liked. He figured if she didn't return soon he could just drink it himself, but it wasn't too long before she was making her way back.
"What's the verdict?" he asked. "The Arbor? Sothoryos?"
"Sunspear," she said glumly as she reached for her coffee cup. Her sigh was resigned. "Four days of drunken antics, male strippers, and nude beaches. Bet you a dragon I'll end up in the hospital with sun poisoning." She blinked in surprise after she took a sip. "The server got my coffee perfect."
He smiled, just a faint quirk of lips. "I was thinking," he said, "that you should give me your email address. In case I need to let you know something about the wedding."
She blinked at him, but shrugged before rummaging in the fussy little bag he was sure Tysha had foisted on her. She came out with a post-it note and pen, scribbling in purple across the paper before handing it to him.
Jaime glanced down and couldn't repress a grin.
"What's so funny about my email address?" she asked.
"Nothing." He tucked the slip of paper into his shirt pocket and gave her his most winning smile. "Dance with me?"
"No." She grimaced, lifting her coffee for a sip, then seemed to realize she'd been too blunt. "No, thank you."
"You'll use your girly purple pen to switch your name for Alysanne Lefford's, so we're partners for that stupid hunt, but you won't dance with me?" He smirked when she froze, cup still at her lips. Her eyes were very blue over its rim. "I thought cheating was only justified in the case of— what did you call it?— 'earth-shattering importance'?"
Brienne lowered her cup to the table. There was a Lannister-red lipstick print where her mouth had touched. Her cheeks flushed a deep pink. Very carefully, she avoided looking at him, staring out over where the other couples moved in circles around the dance floor.
"Maybe I thought being your partner was earth-shatteringly important."
The fairy lights surrounding them made starlight spark in her eyes. It was beautiful, but he preferred how she'd looked when she recognized his mother's smile on his face. The way the moonlight had glimmered in her eyes at that moment had sucked all the air out of the room. He was still feeling a little breathless, in fact.
"Maybe I think dancing with you is earth-shatteringly important," he challenged, but his tone was gentle.
Brienne looked at him, then. Or through him, perhaps, all the way to the core. He waited, feigning patience, and finally she smiled, the smallest, sweetest smile in the world, and held out a hand to him.
"Well, then, we'd better dance."