The Adventures of Super Jock and Awkward Girl

A/N ~ The Dream of Wonders has been changed to suit the fic. Just to let you know. It focuses more on the idea of Jaime having to sort out his own life, and make his own decisions without his image in mind, and the more prominent part is centred around the Westeros High Dragons. Also, the guns have a metaphorical meaning – cookies to everyone who guesses! And to those who are asking is this over – don't be silly. I've got THIRTY planned chapters, including the epilogue. I just have trouble getting on the internet regularly.

Disclaimer ~ Despite all my scheming, A Song of Ice and Fire still belongs to that fat old sot who is indeed king and god of everything.

1. Well, This Friendship Thing Escalated Rather Quickly

Jaime Lannister did not sleep untroubled that night, no – after so many late nights, after the party and his insane hangover, he slept deeply, as expected, yes, but smoothly? Not a chance. Naturally. He crashed into bed after feeling out of place and agitated all evening – simultaneously irritated and angry and calm and sleepy, and feeling like he wanted to do something, but wanted to want to do something, which he did not. Homework had been shoved aside, guilt repressed, and some shit put on the telly, until he sunk down, chin on his chest, hand throbbing, bleary-eyed and bored, and Tyrion told him it was nearing midnight and he should probably get some sleep. Someone else would have told him he ought to eat before he rested, but he was more tired than hungry. So he'd trudged upstairs and didn't even make it to the bed; though when he crashed down on top of a stack of study books he'd never looked at before, he didn't fall peacefully, as he'd hoped.

He should have gotten decent sleep, if there had been any damn gods or caring fates. But all his dreams these days were so vivid.

He stood alone, alone and completely vulnerable, in darkness, such darkness, but even in the faintest of lights he recognized his home – he was still in the Lannister house. Strange. But what was stranger still was that he appeared to be standing in the basement; the old cellar that nobody went down into anymore. It took him a few moments to mark what was different, different but felt so right – his hand was alive and healed, bones attached and fixed in place. He raised his arm, flexed his wrist, as he hadn't done in – how long? A month, more? They said it was meant to be healed by now, they said it. He could feel the strength in it, in his fingers, back again so late, feel the blood flowing silkily through his hand, not disjointed and struggling.

Around him stood a dozen dark figures, obscured by the stacked shadows and the black hoodies pulled up over their faces, like gangsters in old movies. He felt like he should have been scared of them for that, but he felt like nothing could hurt him so long as his hand worked, too. Then he realized – in their hands were guns.

"Who are you?" Jaime demanded. "What are you doing in my house? I'll call the police if you don't leave here right now."

But they didn't care to answer. They just poked him on with their pistols, and he had no choice but to descend. Descend? In his dream there was a passageway, like the one Tywin had blocked up years ago, when he was just a little kid, but it twisted down, and he had to follow it, down into a narrow staircase, dark and dismal. It's like some horror film. The idiot family always goes down. I have to go up, up back to my bedroom, not down here, why am I coming down here? Down here was where the danger lurked. Something terrible was down here, he knew with the certainty of a messed-up nightmare. It was like whatever horror-film villain was down there wanted him, but when he tried to stop, the guns just prodded him on.

The steps ended abruptly on a darkness far greater than the one in the basement he'd come from. He could feel the vast space in front of him, below, some huge black abyss, even in the echoey pitch. He jerked to a stop, balancing on the rim of nothingness. But still the gunpoint jabbed him forth. He fell, and he fell quickly – he was aware of shouting out, before his fall came to a sudden stop. A shorter drop than he'd anticipated. He was on his knees, in shallow, cold water. "Where am I?" He called, and a voice answered, echoing, like a thousand voices more than one; Your place.

And then it dawned on him that over all the other voices he could hear his dad. And there he was, so suddenly, and Jaime was only vaguely aware he was dreaming, it seemed so real. Tywin was standing next to Cersei, and next to Cersei more shadowy shapes he thought he knew. If this was still so far beneath the house, he felt almost as if Tyrion should be here, but then he was glad that he wasn't. This was not where Tyrion belonged. His father looked so stern and cold – more so than he usually did, like all of his chilliness was heightened down here, that he had to turn to his twin to appeal. "Cersei, where are we? Why's Dad taken us here?"

"Us, Jai'?" Cersei seemed detached. More so than usual – why, why, why? They fought, as all did, but she was his twin, his family, family loved each other. She was holding a torch, a powerful wind-up flashlight one, like the professional ones, and the only light in the cavern-esque space. "This is your place, your darkness." She looked sad and remote and pleased all at the same time, before his sister turned to leave him in this slasher-movie set, in the dark. "Sometimes, Jaime, you have to face things on your own."

"Where are you going? Stay, you have to stay, Cers, you can't leave me alone here!" But they were already leaving, their father too. "No, guys, don't, please! Don't abandon me in the dark!"

Jaime circled, anxious, feeling the icy water flow into his shoes, sodden socks. He'd watched his fair share of creepy films; he knew to be wary of the water, however shallow – there could be creatures in there, carnivores, parasites. And yet he felt something brushing up against his foot, and he knew he had to find it. He didn't want to, like he didn't want to go down further from the basement, but he had to, so he fished around for it. His stomach clenched when he realized it was a gun he was holding, a Bond pistol. He'd never held a gun before, not outside the worlds of Xbox and PlayStation. It scared him, the power he was holding so easily. And then, so dull and soft at first, came a light, faint, tentative – almost like it was afraid to shine, just in front of him, above the gun in his tightly clenched hands. It was a colourless sort of light, not like the electronic white-gold of Cersei's flashlight.

A splash from behind alerted him suddenly, and he whirled to see what it was, gun trembling. It was like he was in a video game, or a real war – but the dim illuminations exposed only Brienne Tarth. Even in the cover of nightless night, he could still just about make out the blue of her eyes, turned on him, on his gun. It was so dim down here that he could hardly see her, even though they stood so close. His thoughts from the pool returned unbidden; in this light she could almost be pretty. In this light she could almost be anybody. "A pistol." It wasn't a question. She held her hand out and there it was, with another ball of light, silver and blue; the black receded a tad.

"The light will live as long as you, Jaime," He heard a voice call, a familiar voice that he could barely place now, but knew he knew. Shifting. Was it Cersei? Now Rhaegar? Now Robert? "When it dies, so must you, Jaime Lannister,"

"Hello?" He shouted. "Who are you, where are you? Stay! Stay with me, stay!" The voice didn't reply, but he could just about make out footsteps, footsteps. Going away, away from him. Brienne shifted the pistol slightly in her grip - it looked hauntingly easy there – and the light shifted too, shimmering, and it grew brighter, just a little, than his. Beneath her feet, Jaime could see the disfigured reflection of the bulbless light in the flat, dark water. Dream-Brienne was as tall as waking-Brienne, but it seemed this one was more of a girl.

"Where are we?" Brienne asked warily, fierce in the faint blue light, moving slow, gun clutched tight; step, turn, listen. Each step made a muffled splashing. "Do you know what's down here? An animal, or something? What's here, Jaime?"

Doom.

"I don't like it here. It doesn't feel right."

"I'm not too fond of it myself, you know." At the end of the day, this was his dream. Nightmare. Dream. His twisted subconscious; his darkness. Though their little lights together made a ring of pallid, blue luminescence, the darkness, his darkness lounged all around them, unending. His feet were so wet, socks clinging. He looked to her.

"We could go back the way your dad came. We could try to climb the walls. If I gave you a boost, we could make it, you'd have no trouble reaching that tunnel mouth thing, where the stairs end." Jaime considered. She's right. I could follow Dad, and Cersei. He felt a warm hand on his shoulder, light. "Listen," Brienne said, and he was trembling in the cold and at the sudden touch. "Someone's coming." Tywin.

Jaime turned around, frowning through the black, until he saw it too, murky shapes, getting closer and closer. Tywin. He could only hope it was his family; somehow, by nightmare standards, he was sure he'd not be so lucky. It was strange; he could see whoever it was, whatever it was, emerging, walking so slowly, but they didn't make any noise. No splashy water, no rustle of clothes or noticeable, loud breathing. Maybe it was just the dream, the nightmare, but he felt a weird kind of dread from them, and gained new respect for the ghost stories, and the idiots in them. Dread, but not fear. Somehow he knew to keep those two separate. Somehow, he knew he didn't have to be afraid. Dread was different. Brienne touched his arm softly. "There are more."

There were.

And now he saw, he saw them. They were his friends, his peers, his teammates, his brothers. He'd known most of them since preschool, when he was a tiny little shit with a positive golden afro of curls, and a temper worse than his twin's was now. Gerold Hightower, and Arthur Dayne, steady and quiet as they never were in waking hours, casting shadows that were darker and heavier and larger than they were. Side by side and accusing. Handsome and strong and almost… mourning. Robert Baratheon, with his wild black hair, more upset than raucous, something far more different than he knew. And leading, Rhaegar Targaryen. Around were other various members of the Westeros High Dragons. "Hi? Hello? Hello? Hello! Rhaegar! Rhaegar…? What's going on, how do we get out of here?"

If they heard him, his teammates, his brothers ignored him.

"You were so happy when you joined us, Jaime," Gerold said, so softly. "So untroubled."

"Like us," Robert finished.

"Like us."

"Like us."

They all echoed it, the two words he puzzled so over. What did that even mean? What did he do? But they were all coming closer now, and so menacingly, while he and Brienne stood back to back against the darkness, as they closed in.

Jaime woke up to the shriek of his alarm clock.

Five minutes to seven.

Confused as to why he was lying sprawled across stacks of assigned study books halfway across his bedroom, Jaime sat up, head fuzzy from sleep, hand immediately going to his aching face. A hardback science guide had left it's indent in his cheek. Great. He yawned and found to his surprise that he felt more awake that he had done in a good long while. And then it came back to him, in all it's startling clarity, the dream. Wow. I really need to stay off the booze.

found his way quickly downstairs, where Chataya was frying eggs and bacon in a hissing pan. Tyrion sat ay the kitchen table – their father already at work, they avoided the dining room once more – already stuffing his little face with that fish he liked. Jaime went to the cupboard and drew out a plate, settling down beside his brother, where Chataya slid an egg and a few rashers onto his plate. He grappled for the ketchup, in almost good spirits.

And then Cersei came downstairs, looking positively venomous.

Jaime promptly shovelled his breakfast into his mouth, much to the amusement of his younger brother, and hastened up the stairs. Shower, clothes, bag, shoes. Within the half hour, he was out the door. The sudden light blinded him momentarily, before he adjusted. Though autumn was trailing surely into winter, he savoured the warmth on his skin – it'd be warm today. Perhaps for the last time in a few months. He fumbled in his bag for his earphones, checking the time on his phone. Early. He'd take the long way around.

Jaime stared at the grains of the pavement as he walked, almost in time with the music, golden hair drying quickly. He passed a gaggle of girls he briefly knew, from Sunspear Street, who waved wildly and then fell about, giggling amongst themselves as he nodded acknowledgement to their existence. Some people are such idiots. That wasn't going to stop him revelling in it, though. He wasn't Rhaegar.

He thought about taking the time to consider what his mental dream meant. Or would have done, if he were the sort of person who believed dreams meant things. (Probably just that alcohol didn't agree with him and he should never watch Saw ever again.) In fact, he was just putting his subconscious from his mind and turning his thoughts instead to how well he was managing the broken hand lately, and how he was going to enjoy watching the awkwardness between Baelish and Stark today, when he turned the corner onto Evenfall Lane and really wished he'd taken his usual, shorter route.

Oh, for Seven's sake, just when I was having a good moment, just when! Someone up there really did have it in for him.

Brienne Tarth was hovering in the doorway, shouting up the stairs to someone, presumably a parent. The poor cow hasn't noticed me yet. I can still turn around. Go back the other way. Carefully… Jaime turned his back immediately at the sounds of a door closing and a lock clicking, before a glance at his phone confirmed his unthought-of dread. If he went back now to favour his default path, through the park, he'd be extraordinarily late. And though he was Jaime fucking Lannister, who didn't care at all, his fathers words about his grades and his exams and college kept popping back into his head.

Maybe if he kept his earphones in she wouldn't notice him. No, that'd never work, I'm far too attractive. Oh gods. Oh gods. Why. Jaime turned back to find Brienne had already started walking, head down. Close. If he paced himself he could stay behind her all the way there. Did he have science today? He tried to think, but the thoughts wouldn't come when he called. Damn them. His dream was coming back to him, the pistols and the ocean blue light, silvery in the darkness. Like us.

Oh, to hell with it. He'd have to face up at some point. Why was life so hard, anyway?

He pulled out an earphone and jogged over. "Brienne!" You used to call her Tarth. He inwardly cursed at himself, and remembered to focus more on what he called her. Couldn't be so informal. She might get the idea he didn't loathe the very sight of her. She turned, frowning and didn't say anything when she saw him. Once more he failed to read her expression. Stupid bitch. She just blinked at him.

"Yeah?"

He caught up with her and fell into step beside her, glancing around to make certain there was nobody around he knew, nobody he was friends with. There wasn't. There wouldn't be. They all took the same route he usually did. She was half a head taller than him. Bollocks. He had always been considered tall. "Well hello to you too."

She stared at him with – was that annoyance, he detected? "What do you want, Jaime?"

"Well I want my hand to work properly, but that's not happening for a long time, apparently. Sad, isn't it? What do you want?" Jaime stared from Brienne, who was looking firmly in front of her, to the sunlight beating down on the concrete ahead of his feet.

"I want you to leave me alone, Lannister."

Well.

"Strange, I don't think any girl's ever said that to me before. Then again, I don't think any human's ever said that to me before."

Brienne stopped abruptly in the sunlit street, turning to face him, hefting her backpack, slung over one shoulder. "Please go away."

"I have as much right to walk to school along this road as you do."

"Jaime, shut up and leave me alone."

"You're like a parrot, you know, a really, really, really ugly, socially awkward parrot."

"What are you talking about?"

"You just say the same thing, over and over. Is that intentional or…?"

For once, Brienne actually fixed those enormous azure eyes on him, and in truth she just looked tired of him. But then again, apparently his judgement was all over the place these days. Freaking hormones. "Jaime, I don't know what you're trying to achieve but can you do it somewhere else? I'm meant to be meeting my friends at the next block and you're not one of them. If you're planning some joke, try it on someone else."

I'm not planning any joke, woman, for the love of god! What was wrong with her? What was wrong with the bitch, why couldn't she just get it into that thick skull of hers that he wasn't setting her up for anything! Honestly, maybe he should just go back to Classic Jaime and stop trying to be nice at all. Consciences were too heavy for him to deal with and nobody seemed to appreciate his anyway. He could've said all that to her. He would've. But no, he was him, stupid, stupid him, and had to go and act all mock-shocked. "Wait… You have friends?"

She opened her mouth to say something and stopped herself. "You're impossible." J

Jaime stood still there beneath the blue sky, as Brienne just turned and strode off in the direction of the school. Oh, for crying out loud. Jaime sighed and hurried after her, grabbing her hoodie sleeve as he caught up. "No, seriously, wait, Brienne." Brienne again, damn it, Tarth, Tarth. "I want to call a truce. In the name of science." He was expecting the usual response to all the pure gold that came from his mouth; smiles and nods and acceptance. She just scowled.

"Do you honestly think I'm going to believe that?" She muttered, kicking at a fence with an ancient, scuffed Converse. "Nobody who's not one of you believes anything you say." That was quieter, but he could still hear. She probably hadn't meant that to hurt, but somehow that last sentence cut through to him, quite clearly.

"Fine, Brienne. I just wanted to say I'm sorry."

"For what?" She blinked again. She wasn't doing it on purpose, not by any means, but she might as well have been. He decided he hated the colour blue. Particularly really, really pretty, bright blue.

"I don't know, woman, give me something to work with! For being a dick. For being nice and then ignoring you, for being nice and then being pissy to you. I'm kind of an ass, and I just wanted to say I'm sorry, for once in my life. Gods. Does sorry mean something unacceptable these days? Honestly."

She considered, and then spoke, after a long while. "At least you openly admit it, most asses try and deny it."

"See, I'm not denying anything." Stupid fucking idiot. He hated her. Why was he doing this? Oh, Gods, he was going to regret this later… He was inwardly praying that she wouldn't ever mention this to anyone ever. They walked on a while, in complete and utter awkward silence. He felt like he should say something. Then he'd warn her that if she ever mentioned this to anyone ever he would indeed tear her limb from limb. "So… How's life?" She didn't say anything. Cow. "Who're you meeting? Renly?" I don't think him and his boyfriend like you tagging around after him. He restrained himself from adding that, but barely. The subject just sparked so many pure platinum jibes.

"Hyle. Hunt. And Pod Payne."

"Great." Podrick Payne was the little kid who Tyrion hung around with sometimes. He knew him by sight, and not well at that. He was pretty certain he had a stutter. Well, at least she has friends, even if they are her standard. "Seemed like a fairly interesting shouting match you were having with your mum or whatever back there."

"Jaime, stop trying to make small talk."

"Ooh, mother issues?" Why are you being such a jerk again, Jaime? This was a touchy subject for him anyway.

"It was my dad, if you must know. He was upstairs." Brienne hesitated, seeming to mull something over for a while. "My mum's dead."

Oh. Oh. That explained a lot. That cited a lot. He wondered unbidden how old she'd been. He could barely remember Joanna Lannister by this point. And the fleeting memories he did have of her were fading with every passing day. No, Jaime, you fucking idiot, don't think about this right now. "Yeah. So's mine."

"Oh."

"Yeah,"

"I'm not talking about this to you, Jaime."

"You will. One day, you will." He didn't quite know why he said that. Except he did. He so did. There was just nobody else to relate to. It wasn't like he could spill his soul to Tywin, or his twin. Not anymore.

"I don't think so. Be quiet."

"Oh, come on, Brienne. Why wouldn't anyone want to talk to me? I'm smart, I'm sexy, I mean look at me." He winced after that came out. That was shitty, even for him. But then again, anything to get off the dead mother subject. Brienne just stared at him, and not in the way females of the species usually stared at him. (Assuming she was female.) (Then again, assuming they were of the same species.)

"I'm not your friend." Just the tone of her voice told him that she was still guarded, still suspicious he might have some public humiliation planned for her. It was so exasperating. Just because you enjoyed a bit of douchebaggery doesn't mean you can't ever be truthful.

"Why not?" Jaime feigned being hurt.

"Because I don't like you. And you don't like me."

"I thought what we had was special."

"Shut up."

"We're almost at the school, where are your friends?" He air quoted the friends and felt immediately guilty for it. She made no reply. "You just made them up to get rid of me, didn't you?"

"Fine," Brienne sighed irritably. "Truce. For the sake of our grades."

Jaime grinned as they approached the gates. "Well. This friendship thing escalated quickly."

A/N ~ Remember; I've planned for thirty chapters including epilogue. Just got a spastic internet.