The Adventures of Super Jock and Awkward Girl
A/N ~ You see, I could not leave this unwritten. Once the idea was here, it kept poking me and poking me until I relented and wrote it. In other news, I've written this as an American school and I'm English. Flay me if you like, and also drop a review or I'll cry. You know crying girls make everything uncomfortable. Each 'coming up' thing is for humour purposes only, and references stuff that comes up in much later chapters.
Coming up… Making an appearance as a subplot will be Lya and Rhaegar as a cutesy taboo couple whilst hormonal Cersei fumes over everything and Daddy Tywin meddles in the love lives of all three of his children! Additionally, what is with that Littlefinger dork and his obsession with Brandon's girlfriend? Find out in The Adventures of Super Jock and Awkward Girl!
Science Sucks (As a Rule, And Now Even More So.)
Life was running just too well, for Jaime Lannister wasn't it?
That was the first thing that ran through that over-inflated golden head of his, when Mr. Hoster Tully read off his name from the pristine papers that condemned the students of Westeros High to their year-long science lab partners. Quite frankly, Jaime had never felt that passion for the sciences ignite within him, and particularly not when compared to his younger brother's aptitude for those arts. It was bad enough you didn't get to choose who you had to study with all year. And yet, he could hardly tell father outright that he despised the damn class, seeing as said father was the vice principal of the school. It was an obvious discomfort for him, an elephant in the room of school-centric discussions; he was Jock Jaime, destined for football scholarships and prom crowns. He was not a scientist. He didn't need scientific studies in his life and he didn't care what litmus paper was (what even was litmus paper?). So perhaps using these arguments he could broker a tentative fight with his father about switching the class for something useful and worthwhile – namely, avoiding being the science partner of – dear god, this could not be true – Brienne Tarth.
Last year was bearable. Last year was fine. He'd been paired up with Robert 'Robbie The Heart-Robber' Baratheon, as he was known to the Westeros Dragons cheerleaders. A boy of beauty and sporting aptitude almost as renowned as his own – but not quite. 'Not quite' enough to make him look good, all around, without dragging his popularity through the mud. Robert B was rife with more disinterest and unintelligence than anyone ever gave him credit for, and the two had enjoyed a year of raucous football discussions and minute explosions and harassing some smarter, overall more scientific kid into doing their papers. But this was actually going to ruin his life. No, this was actually going to kill him. Brienne Tarth, why, mother of god, why her? Someone up there has it in for me. Maybe it's Mom.
It wasn't as if it were a mere teenage sexism matter, either. He liked girls well enough. No, he loved girls. Gods, he wouldn't believe his luck if he was paired with some hot cheerleader – heaven knew that the majority of the student body at Westeros was madly in love with him. Seven hells, even Melara Hetherspoon, that freckly little speck who ran about after his sister and dreamed of marrying him someday would have been better. Even the janitor would have been better.
Brienne Tarth.
He'd be the laughing stock of the Dragons. He didn't quite understand what he'd done wrong. An entire freaking year.
"Now, now, students, settle down," Mr. Tully tried, through the post-lab-partner-announcement babble. Kids were glancing around for their assigned study buddies, and Jamie watched as his friends high-fived one another from where the class lined up against the walls waiting for their assigned seats, cheering boorishly as they were paired with teammates, paired with the guys. Girls grinning and hugging – hugging? Some people took this whole lab-partner stuff way too seriously, Jaime reflected – as they found friends. A few trailing kids muttering awkward words at one another as they were paired with those they'd never spoken with. And him.
Robbie Baratheon clapped him apologetically on the shoulder and muttered condolences, Meryn T, wincing in pity, sympathy. Gregor Clegane had the nerve to laugh out loud as he passed him, and he heard a snatch of something that sounded like 'poor bastard' as he went to his seat, damn him. This was not what was supposed to happen. As the idiot teacher kept directing pairs to their seats around the Bunsen-burned-lined room, Jaime quickly became the last of his inner circle of guys to be given a table – apparently they were going by the thing itself's name, T.
"Brienne Tarth and Jaime Lannister, if you could sit just at the back, please – next to Brandon and Catelyn, if you will." Brandon and Catelyn! Brandon bloody Big Shot Brandon Stark, alright guy and pretty good substitute Dragon, got to study with his girlfriend all year, and he was stuck with Brienne Tarth. Jaime sighed exhaustedly, glaring at the supposed girl as he shoved past her to occupy the far window-side plastic chair, of the two that signalled his year-long doom by the table that also signalled his year-long doom. And agony. Doom and agony. This would give the team a good laugh, and Cersei, his own infuriating twin, and – and everyone!
Gauche and gawky, Brienne – perhaps one of the more prominently ridiculed of Westeros High's social outcasts, next to maybe only his brother – hunched over in the chair next to him. Great. Just great. Maybe this was some banal and terrifying dream. He stabbed his hand with his biro, praying to wake up. No such luck. And now his hand hurt. Great.
Jaime sighed theatrically again, as Mr. Tully launched into an exceptionally dull speech about the wonders of life and the majesty of this longwordlongword and that longwordlongword and the utter wonder that is school-edition textbooks, lazing languidly in his chair and attempting to balance said biro across his nose, just to emphasise the fact that he freaking hated this. Meagre titters from outer-circle acquaintances. Stupid laugh-misers. He'd thought that perhaps his only way through this class from now on – assuming his father wouldn't allow him to drop it – would be to be the ironic guy, to make ridicule of all Tully's teachings.
Apparently not.
A few minutes of deafening silence and trying not to look at Brienne Tarth later, Jaime scrawled some kind of crude joke he'd stolen from the TV last night down, made a paper aeroplane and shot it at Brandon Stark on the next table. Brandon whispered something to Catelyn, and then crumpled the paper, tossing it into his jeans pocket. Of course. Cat's father taught this class (with, Jaime thought, as much enthusiasm and vibrance of a plastic spoon). Wouldn't want to make a bad impression on the girlfriend's dad by laughing at Quarterback Lannister's stupid piss-takes first lesson.
"To conclude – as a welcome back to school treat, all this lesson shall comprise of is the studying of pages thirteen to twenty of the textbooks that will be handed out in a moment, and answer the questions on pages fourteen and eighteen. You may confer with your lab partner, and do try to remember all learnt today – you'll need it for next lesson; we'll be examining some of the most fascinating slides…"
Jaime groaned melodramatically, tunelessly tapping the polished surface of the table with his biro, repeatedly clicking it in and out and in and out and in and out until Brienne sighed heavily, and he felt her kick her bag rather violently from where it shied away from his bag under the table. He supposed she was hardly enjoying their arrangement either. But, he decided – his plight was by far worse. However much she was not enjoying this, she probably endured not enjoying every day here. He was used to admiration and non-stop enjoyment. Reluctantly, he blew the blonde hairs from his face and slid his dusty textbook across the table to him, flipping it to required pages and unzipping his crimson hoodie. Brienne dug around under the table in her bag, pulling out a battered notebook and resigning herself to miserable studies. She pointedly disregarded him.
It was not fair, he thought, glaring at her as she ignored him. Rather than focusing on the work before him, he studied Brienne in a state of perpetual annoyance, eyebrows knitted, confused as to what her existence actually entailed. The Westeros High Dragons had a team for guys and a team for girls; he knew she was on the girls team and he knew she was good. That was all. That was the one redeeming quality he could think of, no matter how hard he racked his menial thoughts. She could play football. It wasn't as if she had much of a personality (that he knew of, or would like to know of) and she was, to put it plainly (as the entirety of the Westeros High student body did) absurdly unattractive; gracelessly, toweringly tall; Brienne was probably shorter only than Gregor Clegane ('The Mountain that Plays' himself), and handled it with all the elegance of a rhinoceros. It seemed, in fact, that Brienne was so discomfited and so did not know how to handle her bulky heights, that she seemed to hunch inadvertently so as to be on a level with people, and seemed to occasionally trip over a muscled limb that she didn't know she had. It was ridiculous and it was pathetic, utilized only in football matches. It would probably have helped if she was pretty, Jaime thought – Lyanna Stark, Big Shot Brandon's little sister, though a skinny, beanstalk-tall thing, and co-captain of the girls' Dragons, was gorgeous, and that somehow detracted from her wild ways (not that Brienne had any wildness in her at all, save for on the pitch, so Jaime thought) and lofty length – but Brienne was just… Brienne. She kept her freckly face down under her short straw-coloured hair and that was probably a good thing. Brienne was shy and Brienne was not the most academically intelligent and Brienne had about two point one friends, and that made her so ridiculously far away from Jaime in every sense.
Except scientifically, apparently.
She was absurdly ungainly, Jaime observed with some fascination. And then felt Tully's hands clamp down on his shoulders. "As much as we all do so love gazing into space, Mr Lannister, I've given you some work to do. I suggest you get along with it."
"Yeah." Jaime muttered, shaking his blonde head and coughing conspicuously, flipping through the textbook. "'K."
"Yes sir, Mr Lannister."
"Well you don't have to call me sir." Jaime retorted, lounging back in his chair and splaying his arms wide, grinning boyishly at his friends from across the room. Ah, some enjoyment at last. Making teachers miserable – one of his more adept pastimes. At least this way the talk would be 'Jaime Lannister was hilarious in science this morning' rather than 'Jaime Lannister worked with the Tarth freak in science this morning' – and aggravating teachers seemed to take the pressure off of his academic capabilities, which weren't so impressive. He could be known as the funny one, or the annoying one, to teachers, rather than the stupid one.
Mr Tully sighed, continuing his leisurely stroll weaving through the two-student tables, bending over to correct a girl's work. "Detention, Lannister. My office. Immediately after school."
Jaime rolled his eyes for the benefit of his watching admirers, and sunk back down into his chair, flipping his biro around. And then the teacher's words truly registered and he sprung back up straight. "Sir, I can't, it's the first practise for the Dragons tonight, I have to train the new subs –"
"I will talk to Coach Selmy on your behalf, I am sure he will understand –"
With an over-the-top groan, Jaime flopped down onto the table, head in his arms, not looking at Brienne Tarth. Maybe he could devote this lesson to sleeping. God knows he needed it; Cersei woke him up at six fifteen this morning, six fifteen, flinging open his door and raging about some crime he had allegedly committed against her precious hair products. And so the lesson passed in awkward silence and the murmurings of lab partners. In fact, Jaime did manage to nod off along the way – He'd get Brandon to get Catelyn to get that Baelish weirdo to do his work for him, he was supposed to be smart – and after waking five minutes before lessons' end, remembered he had a free period. Maybe being in close proximity to Brienne Tarth was just a god-awful start to a good day.
He rose with the bell's shrieking, reaching for his bag and slinging it over his shoulder, stabbing into his palm with the biro to wake himself up a little more, and dragging himself through the crushing flow of students out of the door, to freedom. He leant against the wall, running a hand through his hair to make some sort of order of the golden curls, and ramming his new textbook into the darkest depths of the backpack, and breathing in a sigh of relief beneath the stark fluorescence of electronic lighting. Free.
And then a rather large hand had grabbed his arm and spun him and he looked up and he wished he hadn't. Standing a good few inches over him, his new lab partner was sighing, eyes anxiously flickering around the crammed hallway. Oh, Seven hells. What have I ever done?
"Look," She began, staring thickly down at her overlarge feet, tongue darting out to lick nervously at her chapped lip, fiddling with the hem of her shirt. "I – well, I know it's not the… It isn't the most preferable of arrangements, right, but we have to work together on this because I said to Mr Tully that –"
"What are you trying to say, woman?" Jaime frowned at her stupid face.
"I'm no good at science and stuff, and he put me with you and he said that because we're all, a team now, half of my grade comes from whatever your grade is so –"
"So what? I don't know if you've noticed, Brienne, but I really could not care less."
Brienne's broad, freckly face flushed a bright and blotchy red. "I just thought that maybe being the son of the vice principal you'd maybe be okay with working a bit harder because I'm a bit of a disappointment grade-wise and this is my last chance because I really, I – you have to study, or I'll get punished for it. If you don't, I mean. Study?" She seemed herself uncertain of whatever babble was spurting clumsily from her mouth.
Jaime sighed and waved an impatient hand, utterly terrified that someone he knew might see him talking to Tarth. "Yeah, yeah, whatever, okay? Gods."
And he rounded the corner with the torrent of Westeros High students that flowed from lesson to lesson, now reduced to a trickle as the familiar shouts and laughs drifted into classrooms, and he muttered something under his breath about the crazy cow, as he made his way to the quad to the Dragons, preparing in his head how he could brush off his lab condemnation and divert attention away from his new connection with Brienne Tarth – and his detention. Even he had to admit, glaring down at his shoes, that detention the first day back was not good, even by his standards. And the last thing Jaime remembered before being swallowed up in cheers and claps and friendly punches, by the rest of the free-period-granted Dragons was, oddly, how Brienne Tarth's eyes were very, very blue.
