The Adventures of Jock Boy And Awkward Girl
A/N ~ I do apologise for the lack of Braime in the last chapter, aside from that one last part of Jaime's dream. This chapter should hopefully make up for it, tenfold. Have no fear! Also, I'm testing the introducing of a system in which if you give me a review with any feedback whatsoever, including constructive criticism, I'll DM you a spoiler. The longer the review, the longer the spoiler, though most will average about five sentences. If you're interested in this, in your review, after the context, add reviews for more Braime!
Coming Up… Jaime throws himself some pity-parties for loosing his mommy, which are attended by nobody but himself, Lysa Tully is really quite weird and rather annoying all around, everybody could not care less about Cersei's fuming, and Walder Frey is a batty old librarian. Find out more in The Adventures of Jock Boy and Awkward Girl!
3. Libraries are No Football Pitch (He Probably Should Have Guessed)
The Dreaded Friday soon came around quicker than Jaime Lannister had expected, really.
So referred to by blame of; A, his twin sister going on her date with one of his best mates, purely in a determined and deranged attempt to make Rhaegar Targaryen jealous (and Jaime had heard it all – Cersei had actually planned said date to coincide with Rhaegar's date with Lyanna. She didn't quite seem to understand that not every male specimen on the planet was attracted to her.) and B, a double science class to be dreaded all around, in containing (expected) actual hard work, and Brienne Tarth and her blue eyes.
On a brighter note; Tyrion had given him an answer sheet for his nearest science test (Tyrion, being Tyrion, was studying college-level stuff, despite being fourteen.) in one of their rare yet precious moments of brotherly bonding, and Jaime didn't doubt that Tyrion was correct in the majority of his answers – Tyrion was exceedingly intelligent and rather too adept at the sciences. He was pretty sure he had the answers memorized, and on a brighter brighter note, Arthur Dayne and Bryndon 'Blackfish' and a bunch of other Westeros Dragons were going out tonight, and that promised to rouse his spirits after his last lesson of the day; said double science.
The day flew, each hour-long lesson brushing past him without him caring at all, and, unfortunately, lunch hurling past in a mere matter of seconds. All culminating in his countdown to gazing into space whilst Mr. Hoster Tully droned on about sounds and nonsense that he simply could not comprehend, no matter how hard he tried. So, whilst he lounged against the wall outside of the science room, waiting for the teacher to open up, with the rest of the class, making sure he looked suitably dazzlingly attractive, and loudly and clearly taking the piss out of Littlefinger Baelish and Lysa Tully (Catelyn's weedy little sister) as the year-younger outcasts traipsed around, Baelish staring intently at Cat Tully.
"Don't be swayed, Cat – it's not just his finger that's little." Jaime taunted, grinning widely as the fellow Dragons laughed and joined in. Catelyn herself refrained from taking part, although made no move to stop it.
"Ah, Mr. Lannister. Finding a new way to occupy your time rather than stealing pencils from my library? I'd suggest you stop your harassment of poor Mr. Baelish here and find something useful to do with your time, lest it be said you –"
"Okay, Mr Frey."
He addressed his accuser, Mr Walder Frey, part-time assisting librarian at Westeros High, a weasel-faced and rather senile old man with a brain like a bag of cats, and who had taken it upon himself to harbour a grudge against Jaime and lay him to blame for anything that took a detour in his life. Including the mysterious disappearance of many a pencil from the library desk, for some bizarre reasoning. Jaime had set foot in the library about twice in his time at Westeros High. One of which was by accident. By this point, Lysa and Petyr had scurried along to their own lessons, sharpish.
"Don't interrupt me, boy. Anyway, your wonderful teacher Mr Tully – you are Tully's science class, are you not? – has given me leave borrow one or two of you for an hour or so to help sort out my library, it appears some little group of friends thought it awfully amusing to come and obliterate one of my bookshelves…"
Jaime had stopped paying attention long ago, and had instead resorted back to amusing mutterings amongst he and Meryn and Robert, until he realized what was being offered up around him – this was a chance to leave Brienne Tarth and incomprehensible scientific nonsense behind for – well, however long it took him to organize a shelf, was it, that he'd said? He really needed to start listening (or not, the more rational part of his brain argued). "I'll do it," Jaime had declared, masking his gratitude toward the mad old man with boredom and resignment rolling around his tone.
What he did not bargain on was, at precisely the same time, Brienne Tarth, somewhere down the hallway, stepping foreward, head down, and volunteering herself. Wow. Somewhere, the fates were laughing in malice – apparently, they really had it in for him these days.
"Kidding, of course, I'll just step back over here –" Jaime gave his most charming (albeit rather flustered and furious) smile, sidling closer into the crush of his friends. Apparently Walder Frey was either suddenly, conveniently half-deaf, or pretending to be for the sole purpose of torturing him more. Great, just great. He wondered if this was all because he occasionally skipped church as a child (back when their mother was alive, and they actually went to church).
And so it was, that Jaime found himself trailing grouchily after Walder Frey and Brienne freaking Tarth, whilst his supposed friends glanced after him in hysterics, flowing into the classroom, out of his sight. Just great. His day grew increasingly shitty. Now what had he condemned himself to? Okay, they'd be no incomprehensible blabber about this chemical and that chemical (whatever that chemical actually was) and yet somehow arranging books of all things (it was common talk amongst the tiny sliver of loserish students who despised him - purely out of jealousy, of course - that he was near illiterate – but, he thought, in his defence, he was no Gregor Clegane) , bloody books with Brienne Tarth, whose entire being was just pointless, with Walder Frey snapping at them about goldfish and pastries and god knows what other crazed ramblings of a deranged elderly lunatic.
By the time they reached the library, Jaime was repeatedly banging his head against the wall in hopes of smashing his face in and hence not being able to fulfil the whims of a crazy person. Huh – smashing the face he was so aware and so proud of. He must be in hell.
"Well go on, then," Frey sneered, settling behind his desk and steepling his fingers (Jaime was uncomfortably reminded of his father, who did that quite a lot) (it was more than a bit unnerving), nodding Jaime and Brienne toward what looked like a small earthquake's wake. Some unruly delinquents (possibly long-expelled) had clearly laid waste to a section of shelves, books torn down and scattered. Any 'injured' books were to be disposed of, and they'd better both know the alphabet, or the Stranger take them both.
So, sighing heartily, Jaime Lannister got to his knees and set about gathering up battered volumes, groaning theatrically every so often, so as to make sure both Brienne and Walder knew how much he despised this. After what Jaime guessed to be about an hour, Frey had wandered off under the excuse of 'fresh air' to torment some poor freshman, leaving the silence to crush down on them both. The type of screaming, pulsing silence that weightens the air with such tangible horror that anyone would squirm in discomfort. Jaime pulled his phone quickly from his pocket and clicked to unlock it. Twelve minutes had passed. He slid it back away.
Brienne Tarth had been re-shelving books more quickly and efficiently than he, hunching behind her indomitable shell of silence and resolutely avoiding looking at him. When, accidentally, Jaime caught her eye, she glared softly and turned back to the books, to the shelf, to the books, to the shelf, precise and as irritated as he. And for some reason unfathomable even to himself, the words came from his mouth before he; A, knew why, or B, could stop them. "I get the feeling you really can't stand me." He was thankful there was nobody else around.
Brienne did not look up at him, nor did she have the common courtesy to address him as a present human being. For a while she looked as if she were maybe considering what to say, and then thought better of it. It became evident that she had no intention of acknowledging his existence any time soon when she didn't reply in – he checked his phone – eleven minutes. Assuming they had until the end of the school day, well over an hour, left and Frey didn't seem to be intent on returning any time soon, Jaime lay back against a shelf, crossing his legs and his arms folded beneath his head. Brienne did not protest or even look, doggedly avoiding contact, just kept on mechanically replacing the books to their shelves. She was a strange sort of being, he thought to himself; she seemed not to admire him or fear him – the two reactions Jaime was most used to receiving. Jaime watched her eyes - Jaime knew how to read a person's eyes, and for that Jaime was used to knowing how said people felt (which gave him a rather helpful upper hand when attempting to either talk to or – more likely - ridicule said people.) Brienne's eyes were unreadable. Pretty eyes, he thought, and calm. Determined.
He strongly suspected that determination was more to do with being determined not to make contact with him rather than being determined to stack bookshelves. She reminded him of Tyrion in an odd way, though at a first glance two such souls would be considered so, so different.
"Opting for the strong and silent appeal then, I'm gathering?" Jaime mused aloud, purely intent on amusing himself now; no doubt she would again staunchly ignore him entirely. In an odd way, he realized, this was more boring than science class, but altogether more enjoyable due to a lack of science. Sighing and making a big show of rolling his eyes, Jamie reached for his phone again, opening up Fruit Ninja and setting it to arcade mode. Well, I have abandoned Books With Brienne quickly, haven't I? This might be a new record for a task given up on so soon, even for me. Still, near laughing at his own thoughts (yes, that was how dull he reviewed all of this), he sliced at the imaginary fruit, yelling at the collections of pixels and putting the phone down once more, realizing he should conserve the already meagre battery if he was to be stuck here until ten past three. Sighing and shifting, Jaime Lannister reached for the book behind him, opened it to read a passage, and immediately tossed it aside, much to a look of disgust from Brienne. He couldn't imagine how anyone could voluntarily spend their time reading and enjoy it – Tyrion was a paradox of his own to Jaime. (Tyrion could waste days just staring at pages.) (And he became quite angry when Jaime took said books and floated them down the stream at the end of the garden as boats for his toy soldiers) (Although they were children when that particular incident happened) (Really, Tyrion, the baby of the Lannisters, grew up a long time before Jaime did.)
Either way, the golden-haired quarterback studied the awkwardly overgrown creature as she sorted the volumes with their cracking spines and limp pages, like broken bodies on the bloodied stage of battle's aftermath. Brienne Tarth was dull, but she was stubborn, more so than he, even, he'd give her that. "You're really not even going to give me a chance, are you?" He settled back more comfortably. He tired of this tediousness. "Has anyone ever told you you're as boring as you are ugly?"
"Has anyone ever told you you're head's as empty as it is large?" She parried, near immediately, still stubbornly resisting raising those blue eyes to him, swapping this book for that. "Be quiet." Ooh. He must have hit a nerve, getting her to speak to him. Dear lord. (Though a tiny portion of Lannister inwardly flinched at that. A little part of him, the part that got so awfully upset when a character died on The Walking Dead, the part that felt for things, supposed that she'd not gone a day of her life without at least one person telling her she was dreary and unsightly, whereas few people dared to insult him. She'd have a thicker skin than he would.) (That was the part he continually suppressed, as he did now.)
"Ouch. So it does speak, then. I was beginning to think you were a mute."
No response. It figured. He withdrew the iPhone from his jeans pocket again. They had a good forty-five, fifty minutes until freedom, and if Frey returned before then he'd have to actually pitch in and… horrifying as it was… help. Jaime opened up his games folder, and played a few rounds of Flappy Bird, managing somehow to score four (his high score was forty-three). He offered the app out to her. "Game?" For a few moments he thought she was going back to denying his existence, but then a tight no came to decline the overly generous offer he wasn't sure why he was making.
"Well, why ever not?" Jaime pressed, tone slightly mocking, somehow. Somehow, mockery found its way into his tone no matter what he was saying, or to who. He noted that the way Brienne moved, so awkwardly, almost as if she had no clue how to handle herself, with none of the easy grace of the other female Dragons, Lya Stark or Dacey 'The She-Bear' Mormont; a trait only emphasized by the (obviously) male-intended jeans and enormous jumper she hid herself in. It was quite fascinating, really.
"Because I told Frey that I'd restock his shelves, and that's what I mean to do." She sounded tired, as if talking to him was more effort than it was worth.
Jaime laughed out loud, and cruelly, too. It was so rare to find someone of their age stupid enough to still believe in keeping to their promises, or intentions, that it had actually become nigh on hilarious. And funnily enough, that was what drew her out of herself.
For the first time – he thought, the first time ever – Brienne (freaking) Tarth properly looked at him, and for the first time – he thought, the first time ever – Jaime (golden boy) Lannister did not know how to read a person, how to play a person. And her eyes were right on his, and they seemed far to wise for his liking, and too astonishingly blue, too; too pretty that they were out of place on her. Surely such eyes belonged to someone else, some other girl, some proper girl with a proper girl face and a proper personality – and yet when they stared at him with a sort of stunned, and unbelieving loathing (was it? By this point he was entirely unsure, but everything else suggested loathing) they felt…
Seven bloody buggering hells, Walder Frey's condemnations have actually driven me mad.
He stood up, all arrogance again, with a toss of his golden hair and an exaggerated roll of his green eyes, with his mocking grin back, unaffected and ordinary, lounging against a bookshelf. "I'll leave you to it then, shall I? It's better suited to you."
And he left her fuming on the floor, surrounded by books, for Tully's sciences and cruel jokes on crumpled papers thrown friend to friend. That was what he did. That was him. So why did he feel the most diminutive sliver of guilt?