The Adventures of Super Jock and Awkward Girl

A/N ~ I'm such a tease, I know, I know, patience, my lovelies. I sounded a bit creepy then, didn't I? Whoops. Additionally, the coming ups now feature what's going down in the chapter. Again, do not reprimand me on ages or American cultural fails; I'm English, and I've ignored ages when convenient. Yay! Also, remember - I'm introducing 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.

This is a filler and it's shit and I'm sorry woops.

Coming Up… Date night goes atrociously wrong, ketchup-faced Cersei slams several doors, Golden Child and Mini Man dig up dirt on everyone, and Lysa Tully enters the fray at the Stark-Tully-Baelish-Stark love cube – indeed making it a love pentagon. Find out in The Adventures of Super Jock and Awkward Girl!

4. In Which Tyrion And Jaime Turn Super Sleuth (We Should Fight Crime)

"Oh, yes Robert, you are so funny."

His sister's words were so hollow that they bordered on mockery; Jaime Lannister was yet to understand how his football teammate could be so stupid so as not to see it, or hear it. From where he and the guys were sat, in a booth across the back wall, they could quite clearly survey all that was going on around the primarily Westeros-High-dominated restaurant. His twin sister was smiling and simpering at Robbie B, making all the right noises and offering him tastes of her food (the Gods knew Robert loved his food more than any girl. Jaime never had that problem – he loved himself more than any girl.) but the boredom in her sparkling green gaze was laughable, and the stiffness, the falseness in her tone. Cersei's show was so absurdly rehearsed that it had to be for the amusement of the others sitting around – because Cersei was a good actress, god knew Jaime'd seen her play many a guy with Oscar-award-winning performance - or perhaps a pathetic plea to Rhaegar (sitting across the other side of the restaurant with Lyanna Stark. Number of times looked at Cersei since she arrived: zero.) to save her from Robert's dreariness. In which case, his twin was even more deluded than he thought.

And, what Arthur 'Goalie of the Morning' Dayne pointed out, made it even more hilarious, was the fact that while Cersei frequently stole glances at Rhaegar, Robert was perpetually and dazedly gawking at Lyanna, whilst Lya and Gar laughed and flirted and, in Lya's case, (because she was Lya,) threw food at one another. Cersei and Robert were a couple purely out to drool over the halves of another couple.

Squashed (rather too close for comfort, Jaime Lannister thought, although all good-naturedly) into the booth with him were Brandon and Catelyn, and Brandon's brother (Eddard, not Benjen, and the Stark Jaime had the least patience with. He was just to good.), Jorah and Maege Mormont, Illyn Payne, Boros 'Bone Breaker' Blout, Arthur and Ashara Dayne, Ashara's friend Elia, and Meryn Trant. Needless to say that the table was all too crowded with jostling plates and glasses. Their poor waitress nearly had a fit when they rolled off their orders. (But, Jaime thought, it was okay. Theirs was, after all, The Cool Table.)

What did make everything a deal more awkward was how Elia (Martell?) had to suppress fits of giggles each time he looked at her, let alone spoke to her; Eddard Stark was staring dreamily at his big brother's girlfriend, Littlefinger-style; Ashara Dayne was staring dreamily at Eddard himself, and though Brandon remained happily ignorant, Catelyn herself seemed very much aware of Ned. And, at the next table along, the loser gang from the year below also stared (just as dreamily) at them, and at one another – Littlefinger Baelish at Cat, Lysa Tully at Baelish, Barbrey (Dustin?) at Brandon Stark (who was her ex-boyfriend) and glaring Cersei-worth daggers at Cat, whom Brandon had his arm around; and Howland Reed at Lyanna Stark across the room (he and Robert, Jaime reflected, could start a club. The I Love Lyanna Gang. Sounded promising).

And Jaime, being Jaime, was the only one to be able to read all of this rather confusing web of crushes. Idiots – they should all just learn to love themselves more than anyone else, like he did, and things would be far less complicated.

After a while of good-natured banter, Jaime excused himself to go to the men's room – and, to his horror, when he returned, another table, near to the door, was filled with un-coat-ing Westeros High kids. Oh, bloody freaking brilliant. He didn't understand what malicious joke the fates were repeatedly playing on him and Brienne Tarth, he didn't quite want to believe it – but no, there the thing herself was, with Robert's brother (Renly, the youngest one, not Stannis. Jaime could tolerate silly, camp Renly, just about – Stannis he could not; Stannis knew neither how to have fun or how to smile, despite having one of the hottest girlfriends – Melisandre wordhecouldn'tpronounce from wordhecouldn'tpronounce – in the history of, like, anything, ever), a Westeros Dragons trial reserve who Jaime was nearly almost sure was called Hyle Hunt, Illyn Payne's idiot younger cousin Pod, and some others he did not know. Why here, of all places, why her?

He was beginning to think that this was some kind of prolonged Punk'd trick.

Although, everyone at said table, who had clearly just arrived, judging by the amount of scarf-unwinding going on, and the untouched menus, thankfully, did not see him. And if they did, well, he expected Brienne would go on ignoring him, which suited him perfectly. For that he thanked the gods, even if they'd not been particularly kind to him recently. (And by particularly kind, yes, he did mean evil douchebags. Then again, he realized, maybe it was that kind of thinking that had them damning him to Brienne Tarth in the first place.)

Slowly, head down beneath his golden curls, Jaime Lannister measured his steps and deliberately looked away as he made his way back to his table, and, somehow, against all his luck had taught him, not one of them had noticed him, and he was able to slip back in against the wall, past Brandon and Cat. Jaime Lannister, however, was hence preoccupied the entire rest-of meal, attempting not to shoot nervous – no, bollocks, Jaime Lannister did not get nervous – glances at Renly's table, just to make sure he'd not been noticed by Tarth. (He was hardly scared of being seen. He was just scared of always overly-friendly Renly waving him over to say hello, and then, maybe once he'd gone, Brienne explaining her sullenness – though she was always stupidly sullen – and how he'd actually attempted to engage her in conversation early that very day. When word got out about that particular mistake, that was when his golden reputation was torn to tatters and dragged through the mud.)

An hour or so later, when the sauce-stained plates had been cleared away, and those on the Table of Doom had just been granted theirs, Jaime decided it was a prime time to slip casually away, and as he announced it, he grew increasingly concerned about certain friends and their overloud parting words, and then more so concerned about the fact that Renly and co. were sitting right next to the only damned door.

"Right, right, right. Anyway, folks, as much as I do so hate to leave you without the best and most attractive one of the group, I will see you on Monday."

"Aren't you going to meet up with the rest of us this weekend, then? We have to train, we have a game coming up." Arthur Dayne complained.

Well, wonderful – on top of everything else, he now had to admit to himself his ghastly promise of a weekend from hell. Why did things always seem so much worse when declared aloud, in one's own voice? "No can do. I have family coming down from Casterly." Oh right, because that was almost like admitting it was true. Not that Jaime hated the family as much as Cersei, but there was only so much time a person could spend with Uncle Kevan before dropping dead from boredom. Uncle Kevan, by this point, was even more deadly dull and dreary than Brienne Tedious Freaking Tarth. And you had to have a certain amount of energy to be around Aunt Genna for too long (and to be frank, if you had talked to Kevan Lannister beforehand, you would have had no energy whatsoever.)

His friends offered up pitiful condolences, that simply darkened his mood further. Jaime accepted them all and swung his coat on, head doggedly down, glaring into his Timberlands and he strode in a storm of self-pity (well, nobody else seemed to be giving him any) (which wasn't at all fair) (he was just a poor little rich boy with a silly family and a dead mother – just because he was popular and famously good-looking and talented at football, and had everything he could possibly need, why should his trivial tribulations get their pity?), to the door, swinging it rather harshly open.

And just as he was half-out into the September winds, he heard the cheery shout that sunk his heart to his stomach and signalled his everlasting doom.

"Jaime!"

He didn't turn around (which, the teeny feelsy part of his brain decided, was just to spite himself, which was stupid, because he now had all manners of leave blowing into his face and hair, and the back of his coat still inside the warmth of the restaurant), just winced into the wild winds. "Yes, hello, Renly."

"Well what're you doing out in the cold like that, come and talk properly you blonde-haired twat!" Renly had clearly been spending too much time with Robert.

"No, no, I'm good." He heard Renly B's laugh, and decided, no matter how awkward things might be not to go back in. This was the most graceless way he'd ever handled anything in his life. (Dear god. Was this what it was like to be other people? How did they take it?) "Bye, Renly." And with that, convincing himself that he was by all means not embarrassed and hence not flushing bright pink, Jaime took off walking briskly against the bitingly cold autumn air.

When he returned home, Tyrion was back from his chess club (honestly, how did Tyrion not get beaten up more often?) and Jaime found him lounging around on the plush leather sofa, scrolling down on a silvery Apple netbook – no wait, his silvery Apple netbook. What was wrong with the world these days, honestly? (So much, Jaime thought tragically; so much.) "Give the laptop back." He demanded of his younger brother.

Tyrion merely held up a hand as if to silence him, mismatched eyes narrowing as he frowned, half-amused and half-perplexed, at Jaime's screen. Sighing, and cursing the gods for granting him one depraved (and possible mentally unstable) sibling, and another who was perpetually unpredicatable, Jaime trudged forth to where Tyrion had his gadget balanced across his knees, clicking away. He held his hand out. "Tyrion."

"Just a moment, dear brother, I am uncovering some delightful dirt and unravelling some wonderful information to hold over peoples' heads should they get themselves into an argument with me. And technically it's a netbook."

"Fine. Hand over the netbook."

"Ask nicely."

"Hand over the netbook please, little man."

"No."

Jaime rolled his eyes. "Tyrion." Making his way to crawling around and throwing himself down next to his brother, he leaned in, frowning at his screen. Facebook was opened in the prominent tab, the other tabs declaring – he squinted – the Westeros High School website, and some sort of American football championship rules in the final tab. What on earth was Tyrion doing? (But then again, what was Tyrion ever doing?) He seemed entirely unfazed by Jaime's apparition beside him, indicating he had little shame for whoever he was stalking.

"Tyrion, what are you doing?"

Tyrion, eyes fixed firmly on his scrolling, switching form tab to tab, neglected to look up. (Perhaps that was why he related Tyrion to Brienne Tarth – they both had the irritating, out-of-the-ordinary nerve to flat-out ignore him.) (It was really quite aggravating.) (Not for the first time that day, Jaime wondered how other people coped.)

"I am digging." Tyrion murmured, still staring at the alternating websites.

"Digging what?"

At that moment, Cersei Lannister chose to fling the back door open with all her might, wrenching the thing very nearly off of it's hinges, fuming, furious, thick, golden hair for once not unexplainably perfect (Jaime marked that with triumph), eyes wild. There was also something that looked suspiciously like tomato ketchup speckling her right cheek. Tyrion burst out laughing, leaning back in hysterics; Cersei's deathly, seething glower could did not even silence him. Jaime quirked an eyebrow in query.

"I swear to every damnable god there is, I am going to kill Lyanna fucking Stark one day." His ever-amiable twin spat, with a snarl and a terrifyingly enraged growl. Then she tore up the staircase, and her livid footfalls echoed so stridently through the house, Jaime thought he'd go deaf. Tyrion, still snorting, turned to him, and, exchanging a look, the Lannister brothers fell about laughing. After a while, Jaime nodded toward Facebook. "Check what happened?"

"Check what happened." Tyrion confirmed, searching for Lyanna Stark's page. Her latest status update read; Ketchup, I have proven, can be used as a weapon. Shame on all you idiots who tried to convince me it couldn't. Which said nothing. Rhaegar hadn't posted anything since the party declaration, and Robert Baratheon's page gave nothing away. Which set a diabolical, Cersei-standard plan unfurling in Jaime's malevolent mind (Well, in his defence, he did share an awful lot of genetics with Cersei.) as he snatched the netbook away from Tyrion, pulling it onto his lap, and logging out of Tyrion's page. When Tyrion leaned over to see what he was doing, Jaime's hushed answer was that of; "I know Cersei's password."

If anything had gone down between Lya Stark and Cersei, Rhaegar was exactly the sort of person who would message Cersei to apologise and let her fall gently. There was the added complication of Cersei logging on and becoming confused as to why a new message was marked read, but to hell with sensibilities. "Well, I'd always thought it'd be easy to guess," Tyrion mused. "Probably something like ilovemyself111 or cerseiisbetterthanyou123."

"No, no," Jaime murmured, typing Cersei's email in. "I was ransacking her bedroom for tissues a few months ago and I found a book with her passwords in – one moment…" Glancing once at the ceiling, as if Cersei could magically see through the floor (that would be just like Cersei, to ruin one of his plans), and then back at the screen, he lowered his gaze to the keyboard, clicked the password box. Joannalanna. (The more considerate part of his brain considered Cersei's using their mother's name as a password a clue to her more humane side.)

And he clicked Log In.

And he was in.

Tyrion whooped and held up a hand for a high-five; Jaime slapped his palm, but hushed him – Cersei could hear and return at any moment, and the odds were that she would not be in a good mood. (Then again, when was she ever in a good mood?) Jaime saw, with an exchanged glance of sheer shared delight with Tyrion, that she had three new messages. And when he clicked on them, the top one was, indeed, from Rhaegar Targaryen. He nodded at his brother. "Do the honours, Mini Man?"

"But of course, Golden Child." Tyrion took the netbook and began reading, in a soft, movie-esque dramatic voice, a parody of the Prince's own. "'Cersei, look, about earlier – I'm so sorry. I understand you've perhaps had feelings for me for quite some time, and I do not wish to lead you on or hurt your feelings, but I do not, and cannot see in the foreseeable future, my returning your affections'." Jaime snorted.( Who spoke like that?) "'Robert Baratheon is lucky to have you; however little I know you, I'm sure you're a wonderful person –' That he would say that just proves how little he does know her." Tyrion went on, grinning like a child in a toyshop. "'- It's not going to happen, Cersei, and I am so sorry. But that is absolutely no reason to express any disappointment or resentment you may harbour towards me on Lyanna. I admit she was probably wrong to flick that tomato sauce at you once you'd leaned in – but that was a reflex. I would probably have done the same if I had not been so confused and shocked, so bear her no ill will. She is none of your concern, no matter how crazy she can get sometimes. And I will say this now, on her behalf, purely out of middle grounded resolvement – she took absolutely none of your insults to heart. I hope you do not take any of hers. Sincerest apologies. I hope we can be friends.' This, Jaime, is priceless platinum."

"So Cersei tried to kiss Rhaegar and Lyanna attacked her with ketchup?"

"And then they fought a bit, from what I'm gathering." Tyrion beamed, passing the slender laptop back towards it's rightful owner.

Jaime snorted. "You know, Tyrion," He went on, "I'm beginning to discover a newfound respect for Lya Stark."

"Aren't we all?" Tyrion grinned. "Aren't we all? And speaking of Starks…" He reached again for the netbook, logged off of Cersei's account and back into his. "I have uncovered the most priceless piece of gossip there is."

"Who are you, Spider Varys?" Jaime grinned, good-naturedly. Varys 'The Spider' was in the year above, and the biggest, best gossip in school, hence, reporter-photographer for the Westeros High Newspaper. It was rumoured that nobody had any secrets from him and his little birds – Jaime doubted that, but he respected the guy purely out of concern that he knew something off about him himself. Jaime also knew that Tyrion, too, liked to have all possible information about all possible foes; suffering from dwarfism in a public high school was almost like standing under a continually flashing neon sign declaring him bait. But Tyrion was Tyrion, and could hence smoothly talk his way out of any argument, more likely earning a laughing crowd along the way – and to keep a hold on the upper hand for arguments' sake, Tyrion needed dirt that he could hint at, and possibly blackmail his enemies with. "Go on."

"Have you ever heard of a love pentagon?"

Jamie snorted once more. "Excuse me?"

"It's like a love triangle but with five people. Don't fear yourself insolent – they may be the first one."

"Who?"

Tyrion took a deep breath. "Brandon Stark is dating Cat Tully, who may or may not like his brother, the holy Ned, who clearly, from what information I've got here, likes Cat. Petyr 'Littlefinger' Baelish is also madly in love with poor overly-adored Catelyn here, and unfortunately, Cat's rather less pretty, less intelligent little sister, Lysa, has fallen for the non-existant charms of Baelish. Pentagon."

Jaime, in considerably higher spirits than he'd been all week, silently thanked the universe for his wonderfully sneaky little brother – as much as they quarrelled, he didn't quite know what he'd do without him, particularly as he always managed to provide some cheering information when Jaime was down. "Golden Child and Mini Man." Jaime mused aloud thoughtfully. "We should fight crime." And with that, he turned, near bouncing across the room in jubilance, preparing to maybe play some Final Fantasy. Tyrion's amused little voice stopped him as his hand was on the knob to the staircase's hallway.

"Oh, and there's something that'll please you even more!" Tyrion called. Jaime, however much he loved to hear his classmates secrets from Tyrion's Sherlock-style deductions, doubted he'd be more relieved to be normally, airheadedly happy than he already was. He turned his head toward his brother, nodding him to continue.

"Your new lab partner is almost probably very straight for a very gay Baratheon."

Tyrion seemed to be waiting for Jaime to laugh – which he did, if a bit indifferently. As Jaime stared at his feet flying up the stairs, he wondered why on earth he wasn't in hysterics. He despised Brienne Tarth even more since he'd spent time with her, that much was very clear to him on every level, and hence the prospect of her liking the clearly gay Renly should have delighted him to no malicious end. A dozen cruel jokes he could taunt her with next science lesson came into his head, each one worse than the last.

Jaime found it utterly baffling, and completely unfathomable as to why, in the smallest part of him - he just felt bad for her.