Chapter Text
Season 1
Kraken Pro Event, Ironman’s Bay. Day 1.
I feel old.
Jaime Lannister was, by any measure, a man in his prime. At twenty-nine he was not quick to fret the ravages of time, but staring at the back of the gangly boy in front of him, he felt every one of his golden summers. Surfing was a sport that prided itself on evening the playing field—equal rewards for women riders, no age limit—if you can catch the wave you can play. For this reason Jaime found himself standing in line to register for the first elite event of the season. Never mind that he was the reigning champion, had won the damn tour four of the last five years. No, he would wait his turn, just like any other beach rat.
The young man had him by an inch if not two, it was hard to gauge with his slouching. Wide shoulders curled forward in a failed attempt to hide their breadth. Jaime’s eyes fixed on sun bleached hair poking wild through the back of a trucker hat. It looked like the ass end of some strange bird, and he swallowed a chuckle as it bobbed with the nervous shuffling of the boy’s feet.
And Gods those feet. They were wide as flippers and longer than his, ringed in calluses earned by wading through sand. The boy wore sandals, practical soles and thick leather bindings, Jaime found himself transfixed by the ridiculous number of freckles peeking out between the straps. It was only after prolonged watching, an inordinate amount of bored contemplation of whether he used sunblock at all and just how pale would the young man be if he did not live in the water, that Jaime noticed his toenails. Bright pink.
Odd—but not unheard of—surfers were a superstitious lot. Perhaps he thought it brought him luck, that the burn of the color would sear his flat feet to the board and make him nigh invincible. Jaime thought it more likely to be the man’s impressive calves, the corded muscles of his thighs that kept him crouched in the curl. On a lark he checked whether his hands matched. The fingernails were unpainted, cut close and neat, the digits long and tapered. An island of elegance in a sea rough with brute force. Jaime had a sudden urge to spin the boy around, to see what kind of face was attached to the mismatched body.
Instead he waited his turn in the queue, listening with interest as a hulking man who was obviously the young man’s father reached the registration desk.
“Brienne Tarth.” The older man spoke with quiet dignity, and Jaime flinched and pressed closer. His toes nearly brushing the man’s heels.
Brienne. His name is Brienne?
He?
No.
She. Her name is Brienne. Fuck. It’s a girl.
Shifting two steps to the right, Jaime tilted forward but her face was blocked by the massive girth of her father. He produced a folder of papers, opening to a letter of invitation, thumping the desk with blunted fingers. “She is the WSL Junior Champion two years running, and her degree of difficulty is equal to your best male competitors. She is qualified.” The man was a giant, but spoke with soft assurance, producing paper after paper to support his daughter’s right to compete.
Jaime thought of his father. Tywin Lannister had rarely watched him surf, despite the fact that Legacy Lines—the Lannister owned surfboard company Jaime helped develop—was the platinum sponsor of the Championship Tour. The roaring lion logo featured prominently on the pocket of every complementary shirt, on lanyard tags and signage dotting the beach. He wondered if his family would fight for him like this man did for his ugly ducking of a daughter. The idea was laughable.
The girl at the check in smiled sweetly—at least she had been trained well—and nodded at the documents. “Of course Mr. Tarth, it has all been arranged. Brienne is the wild card.” Jaime did chuckle at that, wild card seemed a fitting description for the man-girl standing in front of him.
The girl—Brienne—took a step backward, searching for the sound. For the second time since she arrived at the front of the line, Jaime found himself shocked. Her eyes. Blue that rippled like shallows in sunlight, with a depth and sway that pulled him in.
I could drown in those eyes.
She scowled, brows pulling tight, lips pressed flat. He found himself thinking she might spit on him—or punch him—had her father not landed between them. Jaime resisted the urge to press her, to see what kind of steel was hidden in that massive spine. Something in the challenge of her jaw, the grind of her teeth lighting his own competitive fire.
“Here is your registration packet, your competitor's lanyard, and one for your coach…” The polite girl stood to hang the straps around their necks, father and daughter ducking so she could reach their heads. “Good luck Miss Tarth.”
Her father turned to leave, daughter shuffling shyly behind, and Jaime felt a pang of loss watching her go. She was a unicorn, a solitary mystery, and he rued that his moment of unrestrained arrogance had wounded her.
“Brienne.” He called after, watching her guarded expression as she twisted to meet his gaze. Different eyes—dark—cloudy. “Surf well this weekend.” He extended his hand, held his breath until she squeezed it with her own, his smile broadening as he felt the callused palm where she gripped a board.
“You too mister…” She raised her brows in question, and his heart lurched at the fact that she didn’t know his name. A silly reaction for an odd girl.
“Lannister…Jaime Lannister.” He saw her father’s face shift with recognition, but still she stared at him with guileless eyes. A meeting of kindred souls drawn to the waves, nothing more.
“Good luck Mr. Lannister.” She bit her lip, tilted her head to the side as if missing some joke, then huffed and turned. Stiffening her back and raising her chin, she stalked toward the dunes, ready for battle.
Jaime faced the perky check in girl, his grin unwavering as the she giggled conspiratorially. “And you might be?” He rolled his eyes as she reached under the desk for a large tote. “I have the V.I.P. package for you. Have a great weekend Mr. Lannister.”
He looked in the direction of Brienne, her cap and white blond hair visible above the crowd as she weaved between the spectators.
“It will at least be interesting.” He chuckled, following the sound of crashing surf.
<><><><><><>
Jaime waded ashore after his warm-up to find the big girl sitting on her board, waiting to start her run. Being one of two wild cards, she was ranked lowest and would surf in the first group. There was a green tint to her pale skin and deep furrows around her mouth as she stared through him, focused on the rolling waves.
“You look scared.” He grabbed his towel from the sand, running it over his face and shoulders. “It was your decision to play with the big boys, no changing your mind now girl.” She looked startled, finally noticing him in front of her. “Do I need to introduce myself again?” He smirked, watching a blush spread from the top of her wet suit to her ears.
“I know who you are.” She snarled the words, looking away from his gaze, Jaime felt his hairs bristle in reply. “…and my name is Brienne…not girl.” So there is fire beneath those calm waters. Better to surf angry than frightened.
“Well Briennnne…” He dragged out her name, tasting the sound on his tongue. “There are plenty of people who would love your spot. Men who surfed the tour for years…who earned their place.” She huffed to her feet, took a step forward to look down on him. “No one here is going to go soft because of your gender…or your age.”
“Just like they don’t take it easy on you because of your age?” She cocked a brow at him, lips tilting with mirth. There you are—the girl beneath the scowl. Jaime broke into a begrudging smile.
“I’m like a fine Dornish red.” He lowered his lids, giving her what he hoped was a smoldering look.
“Overpriced and likely to make me nauseous.” Brienne lifted her chin, crossed her arms over her chest. Balling his fists, Jaime debated either cuffing her behind the head or tackling her to the sand, the blood hot in his veins. “I belong here.” Her eyes were blue as slate, deep seas beneath a stormy sky.
“Prove it.” He nodded to the crashing waves, grabbed his board and sauntered off.
<><><><><><>
Jaime sat inside the golden Lannister tent, leaning forward as the first set of riders paddled and waited. Brienne was in the middle of the pack, and the waves were rolling in with smooth, long shoulders. He grinned, the sun would be hot and the surf even higher by the time his turn rolled around.
“J-man!” He heard Theon approach before he saw him, a mass of shaggy hair and wiry beard skulking in the shadow behind his tent. How someone who looked near translucent in sunlight was such an amazing surfer was a mystery of the universe, once his feet touched water Theon became a brand new creature. Jaime was fairly certain he had gills tucked beneath the wayward curls and fins between his toes, the man was an artist on a board. “You ready to rumble?”
Theon plopped himself on the ground next to Jaime’s chair, extending a fist which Jaime met with a bump, not feeling any younger in this exchange. “Wouldn’t miss it Reek.” No one but his family called the young man by his name, instead using the descriptor. The boy did smell, like day old wet joint and patchouli, Jaime doubted he had been unmedicated in years. Still, Theon was kind and soft spoken. Jaime liked him, no matter the vast differences in their personalities. “J-man makes me sound like an old fart trying to be hip. Please…call me Jaime.”
“Aw nah…nah. You’re hip man. Just in that too good looking and too loaded to give a fuck about the opinions of the masses sort of way. Besides, it doesn’t matter if you’re hip when you win.” Theon chuckled, dug his toes into the sand in comforting squeezes. “Saw you talking to the new girl.” He nodded in the direction of Brienne, broke into a sweet smile as he met Jaime’s gaze. “She’s something huh? I texted Yara that she was here, I think sis wet her panties.”
“Yara knows Brienne?” It seemed an unlikely pairing, Theon’s younger sister was abrasive and loud, with enough talent to back up her big mouth.
“She surfed against her two years ago, during her last tour in the Junior League. Brienne destroyed her.” The young man’s grin widened, he smoothed the sand with his hands. “Don’t tell her I said so…but she did. Brienne thrashed everyone, men and women alike, there was no competition for her there.”
“I guess that’s how she ended up here.” Jaime looked at her astride the board, head and shoulders above all the other competitors. There was something majestic in the way she carried herself in the water. If Theon transformed into a fish when wet, then Brienne was a sea goddess, the threat of roiling power and liquid annihilation at her fingertips. His heart sped waiting for her run. “So Yara dated Brienne?”
“Hah…only in her dreams.” He looked back toward the horizon, taking in the remaining riders. Two had completed their run, Brienne waited, bobbing on the surf. “Yara asked her out…repeatedly. Gods she was obsessed with the girl for almost a year, it was ridiculous. Never more than a polite ‘no thank you’ in return. Sis couldn’t figure out if she wasn’t into girls, or just not interested in dating. Yara said she seemed distanced from it all.” He patted Jaime on the knee. “Either way, she’s a good egg. Brienne and Yara parted as friends, and with my sister’s temper…that’s something.”
“Your sweet sister and mine have that in common. Cersei can be…difficult.” He shook his head, the understatement of the century.
“By difficult you mean a conceited, wine sodden, back-stabbing bitch with shit for honor and zero work ethic?” Jaime’s brother Tyrion approached from the judges’ pavilion, handing Jaime and Theon expensive bottles of sparkling water before pulling up a chair. “Reek my boy, you appear relaxed as ever.”
Theon chuckled. “No need to sweat the small stuff little man…not when I get to work here.” He extended his arms, gesturing to the glittering expanse of white sand, the swaying palms. “What happened with Cers? I thought she modeled your brand.”
“She did.” Tyrion crossed his ankles, slid his shades over his eyes, scanning the horizon. “Until I decided that no amount of beauty was worth fighting every day. She was always late, drunk out of her mind, and made my photographers’ lives hell. Between her exorbitant salary and the wasted hours, Cersei’s shoots cost three times what they should have. I had to cut her loose, she was bleeding us dry.”
“Whew…” Theon whistled. “Yara would have my balls.”
“Well, lucky for me my sweet sister assumes dwarves don’t have genitals. We are unfortunate beasts after all.” He pointed at Jaime. “It’s his she’s really after…good thing my brother is quick.”
There was more truth than he wanted to admit in Tyrion’s words. He had been running from his sister for the past year, avoiding her calls, leaving her texts unanswered. I feel guilty. He had failed his twin, unable to protect Cersei from her own worst tendencies. But Legacy Lines was just that, his legacy, something he and Tyrion built side by side and would leave to their own children—assuming either of them could get their shit together enough to have one. Maybe Cersei would win in the end, marry some rich bastard and pop out two or three kids to inherit all their hard work. He deserved it for giving up on her, karma can be a mean assed bitch.
Brienne floated, drifting up and down with inhuman calm. Jaime remembered her open face, those unlikely eyes. Could she turn her back on someone she loved? The answer was clear in the way she and her father stood shoulder to shoulder at the check in desk, in the calm ferocity of his voice and her protective grimace. Never.
Jaime saw the swell, watched with nervous glee as Brienne glanced over her right shoulder. A full, rich roll of water, just peaking on the horizon, time slowing for its languorous approach. “Paddle.” He whispered it under his breath, and on cue her arms cut into the darkness. He shifted to the edge of his chair, the conversation between Tyrion and Theon replaced by the sound of his heart thudding against his ribs, arms twitching in time with her movements as he leaned left, willing her in place. Frantic energy forced him to his feet, without thought he was halfway down the beach, one hand shading his eyes and the other balled at his side as he softly chanted. “Come on, come on…”
Her arms were flying now, long deep digs of water as her shoulders rolled like a machine. Left—right—left—right. And just like that it was upon her, board lifting as she popped to her feet. Jaime saw the moment, her thrill resonated in his bones, perched on the precipice, looking down a cliff of churning water and sand. Shells and rocks and power rumbling beneath her feet. He closed his eyes, savoring her weightlessness, helpless and invincible, as likely to ride as to crash.
He smiled—she smiled—and her board dropped over the edge, landing with purpose on the steep shoulder. Brienne fell instantly into a smooth bottom turn, weight forward as she cut the water with the inside rail, back hand drawing out a tail of spray. Shifting her weight to the back foot, she bounced once to gain momentum before flying up the vertical surface, long lines of board and rider silhouetted against the brilliant sky, a quick taste of air before flipping around and sliding back into the curl.
She’s a tease.
He laughed out loud, unconcerned with the questioning glances around him. Brienne was playing with the water, bending it to her will, searching for the give point before letting loose. Leaning on the outside rail she sliced a wide curve before pushing the nose toward the crest and twisting her shoulders. The board obeyed her command, swinging counter clockwise until she faced the impact zone, bracing her knees as she met white water, a wall of foam inches from her face. Letting up on the tail she twisted clockwise, curling in a beautiful high arc away from the crashing wall, a perfect figure eight roundhouse cutback. Once more Brienne settled into a low, gliding line.
She should be done, most people would be. It was a respectable run. Brienne pumped her legs, flicked her tail. Jaime bounced on his toes. “Go Brienne..go…pump…quick-quick…” There was a gap in the lip, a launch point, and she seized her window, cutting hard. Springing into the air, she floated high above the crest, board fixed to her wide feet by the inland breeze, gripping the nose in a showboat pose.
“Twist it…come on girl…you have the air.” But she held the line, riding clean and beautiful over the crashing surf, landing almost delicately on the shoulder. Sliding along the tail until she reached the shallows and unceremoniously stepped off the board.
“Too safe girl.” Jaime spoke softly, realized immediately the silliness of that statement. This was her first elite event, and Brienne had pulled off the best run so far, was guaranteed top five at day’s end. She has more in her. The thought hounded him, he knew it the way he knew himself.
Brienne strode ashore, dragging her board by the leash, greeted by her father in the shallows with a bottle of water and a broad smile. He took the board with one hand, put his arm around her wide shoulders and huddled his head with hers. As they reached shore he mimicked a crouch position, leaning first into his heels then shifting to balance on his toes. “Tell her dad.” Jaime grinned. “She’s too heavy on her back, it’s slowing her down. She needs to shift her hips too…” He watched for a few more minutes until it felt intrusive. Tyrion was watching him from the entrance to their tent, he too had been pulled to his feet by the end of Brienne’s run.
“Fuck me…did you see that? The girl killed it.” Tyrion shook his head, searching for Brienne on the beach. “Gods she is a giant. It’s too bad she looks like…that.” He crinkled his nose and Jaime felt a tightening in his stomach, an unease that he had trouble explaining. “She’s going to be huge…well she is huge.” His brother laughed, Jaime winced. “We really need a fresh face for our brand, someone to reach the young and disenfranchised.”
“She could be it.” Jaime answered too quickly, Tyrion raised his brows. “Not everyone is born beautiful…you of all people should understand that.” He was sounding defensive, his brother looked confused. “She’s not ugly—not really—just…awkward…plain. Her proportions are all wrong…and her teeth need work. But her eyes…”
“Big brother have you been ogling the ugly duckling…trying to convince me she’s a swan?” Tyrion grinned, it made something hurt.
“She’s a girl…way too young for me to think about.” His brother harrumphed, took a seat under cover and Jaime followed. His discomfort ran deeper than discussion of Brienne’s age or appearance, to change her would destroy something brilliant. “Maybe I like ugly ducklings.”
Tyrion snickered. “You’re an odd duck yourself Mr. Lannister. Don’t you have to surf or something?” He made a shooing motion with his arms, and Jaime grabbed a water and his board. “Lay one down Jaime…no holding back.”
“Have you ever known me to hold back Tyrion?” Jaime jogged down the beach, looking for a quiet spot to stretch and visualize his run.
<><><><><><>
Brienne stumbled out of the water, dragging her board, arms heavy and heart pounding. She was unable to swallow her smile as she met Selwyn Tarth’s proud eyes.
“You did it baby.” He took her board, handed her the water bottle he had been wringing between thick fingers as he sweated through her routine. Wrapping his arm around her shoulders, he whispered. “Are the nerves better now?”
She had spent the half hour before her turn covertly vomiting behind a dumpster in the nearest parking lot, not risking being heard in one of the stalls. That was the last thing she needed, to be known as a puker. She was already the freak girl, too burly for the women’s league, too delicate for the men’s. They had begrudgingly allowed her to surf—there wasn’t a legal leg to stand on if they refused. Her credentials were unquestionable, she could compete with the men.
She nodded, the sea always settled her. It was the only place she felt free. In the water she was weightless, the rise and fall of swells a lullaby for her soul. There she could close her eyes and let the sun burn away all her self-loathing and doubt. The waves did not judge. She was their companion, their master, their lover. Brienne was built for their embrace, her muscled arms and firm shoulders gripped them tight, thick legs dipping into dark depths with abandon. If one day they swallowed her whole, she would be home.
“Jaime Lannister is watching you.” Brienne turned bright red, hoping it looked like a flush from exertion rather than embarrassment. Her father chuckled. “Don’t you read Surfer magazine?”
She refrained from replying that only old people read magazines. Of course she had seen pictures of Jaime Lannister. Seven hells, the roundhouse she just pulled off was straight out of his videos. If nothing else she should have recognized the voice—he narrated the damn thing. But she had been so flustered at the check in, worried they would realize their mistake and turn her away, it’s a wonder she knew her own name.
And then he had looked at her with those eyes, and that jaw, and gods he was too beautiful to breathe the same air. She somehow managed to shake his hand without passing out, caught off guard by the kindness in his face. Scraping together the scattered shreds of her dignity, she wished him luck in return, then scurried off with the intention of never speaking to him again.
Until she did—and he was infuriating—cocky and condescending. Her stomach was already in her throat, and he went on and on about her age and earning her spot. Oh gods, I called the golden lion old.
“Is he still looking?” Her father stole a sideways glance, gave a barely there nod, Brienne whined. “He probably wonders how someone so stupid remembers which foot to place in front of the other.”
Selwyn dropped the board, moved into a crouch, and she couldn’t stop smiling at his goofy expression. “You see my dear, you place your pretty feet…” She groaned loudly, he shushed her. “…your big capable feet like so, and you bend your knees like this…but sometimes…” He met her eyes and looked almost serious. “…you lean too far over your butt and slow yourself down, when you should be pressing into the nose and slicing the water.” Her father shifted his weight, making the point. Brienne glanced back at Lannister, saw his lips moving. Did he just say “dad”—is he talking about us?
“You pulled out of the twist on the final air.” Her father’s voice drew her back to their conversation. He raised bushy brows in question.
“I thought I was moving too slow and…” She paused, it felt like admitting defeat. “I just wanted a solid run under my belt.” He nodded, satisfied with her answer.
“Just don’t surf scared, it never works.” Selwyn motioned over her shoulder. “You’re being hailed.”
Brienne mouthed “help me” before turning around, shocked to see a very short man waving both arms, his face split in a knowing grin. Relieved it wasn’t Jaime waiting to reintroduce himself one more time for good measure, she reluctantly trudged up the dunes.
“Hi…I’m Tyrion Lannister…Jaime’s brother. And you’re Brienne.” He extended a hand, she bent to shake it. “Your reputation precedes you.”
“Oh…gods.” She nearly whimpered, and Tyrion laughed in reply.
“Come now, you seem to have made quite the impression on my brother. He was all a twitter during your run.” Brienne felt herself blushing, tried unsuccessfully to fight the tide. Tyrion’s eyes widened, her cheeks burned under his stare. “And Theon Greyjoy told us all about you and Yara…”
“I didn’t…we weren’t.” Brienne cut him off, struggling to give a proper reply. “Yara is talented..and pretty. I was flattered, she’s just…a she.” Finding a darker shade of pink, she placed her hands flush to her face to cool the flaming skin.
“How old are you Brienne Tarth?” Tyrion moved inside his tent, motioned for her to follow as he plopped down on a towel.
“Eighteen.” She let it hang between them, feeling neither old nor young in that moment. Digging her fingers in the sand, she carved little holes. “I didn’t recognize your brother at the check in desk…I’m sure he told you…”
Tyrion started to laugh, clutched his heart in false dismay. “The Seven hate me. Why wasn’t I in line with him this time?” He flopped on his back, turned to stare at her. “Did you blow him off? Tell me you were at least dismissive…cold perhaps?”
“I implied that he was old.” Tyrion guffawed at that, Brienne found her embarrassment lessening in his presence.
“I think you’re my new best friend. Jaime’s ego could use the beating.” He pointed to his brother paddling out for his first run, golden hair shining as he slid over the rolling tide. “Unfortunately the fucker has both the talent and the looks to pull off his cocky attitude.”
“Hmm.” She would not comment on Jaime’s looks in front of his brother. His talent was a given.
Tyrion glanced sideways at her, seemed to follow the path of her eyes. “Hmm indeed.”
Brienne sensed Tyrion’s dissecting scrutiny, knew he wanted her to say something more, but she just didn’t have it in her. The first run had been tiring, it was hot and she had emptied her stomach of breakfast hours ago. In less than a day she met her idol and managed to insult him—twice—finding Jaime Lannister simultaneously genuine and exasperating. Now she was chatting with one of the most influential men in the sport feeling like a bug under glass.
“Who sponsors you?” The question came out of nowhere, catching Brienne off guard.
“What?” She tried to pay attention, was distracted by an approaching swell. Jaime ignored it.
“Which brand do you represent…who provides your equipment?” Brienne pulled at the edge of her worn wet suit, watching Jaime drift in the surf.
“N-no brand.” The idea was preposterous, companies did not want their logo adorning her awkward frame. Brienne did not covet that weight around her neck, another expectation she couldn’t meet. “I pay my own way.”
Tyrion nodded. “Very honorable.” He narrowed his eyes in a way that Brienne could not interpret, boring into her center and dredging out her ugly secrets. “But if you do as well as I anticipate this tour, sponsors will want you.”
Brienne pressed her lips tight, shook her head. “No…they won’t.”
The day she won her first Junior Championships, Brienne watched as a representative from Lannister Corporation approached both the second and third place finishers, offering the girls lucrative contracts to promote Legacy Lines in the subsequent tour. After winning again the next year she waited, sure a big name board company would contact her—no one did. They hadn’t then, and they wouldn’t now. “I’m not poster material.”
“Who told you that?” Tyrion smiled, trying to make light of it.
Leveling him with a piercing gaze, she squared her large shoulders. “You did Mr. Lannister…along with several others.” He recoiled slightly, opened his mouth to protest, but Brienne ended the conversation with a cool look. She had a job to do, and it didn’t involve his game of false promises.
Brienne leaned forward, squinting toward the horizon. “He’s going.” The swell rose behind him, alone in the flats it rumbled and bent in rolling supplication. Jaime shot forward, board cutting the water, a clean slice that sealed behind him leaving no trace of wake. Other surfers challenged the waves for dominance. Jaime danced with them, parting their watery folds, man and might finding a balance that was beautiful.
Hitting his spot perfectly, Jaime paused, letting the crest catch him as he floated to his feet at the edge of the fall. Brienne’s breath stilled, he crouched and swayed into the abyss, teetering for one stretched second before dropping into the chute. She felt the air gush through parted lips, heard her voice before she could silence it. “Gods…he’s magnificent…”
There was a chuckle to her left, she cut her eyes at Tyrion who held up both hands in surrender. “I won’t tell him…and he is.” Brienne bobbed her head, felt the heat stain her chest as her mouth twisted in a small smile.
Jaime banked into the bottom, long and loose, fingers tangling in the wall of water, setting off sparks of spray. He pumped his legs once and lifted into the air, hooking the board and flipping it lengthwise in a move that reminded Brienne of a kid popping a skateboard. He was carefree—ageless—golden hair whipping about his face, the sharp line of his jaw softened by mist. Giving the tail a flick he rolled inward, guiding his board up the shoulder until he floated on the lip, skidding along the rail before slipping back into the trench.
Brienne sighed—a strange kind of desire gathering in the pit of her stomach—jealous of the way Jaime slid through the water, how he courted its caress. “Show me something Lannister.” Her voice was gravel, Tyrion’s stare felt hot on her face, but she was too enraptured to care. The funnel narrowed, Jaime picked up speed, tightening his crouch.
Shifting his weight he bounced the board, whipped the tail, flirting with the surf, gathering momentum. Carving hard he shot up the curl, thrusted over the crest and launched into air. Mid-flight he gripped the nose and twisted. Rider and board tumbling through a breathtaking barrel roll that left Jaime momentarily upside down, clutching the board like a lover. Brienne’s gaze lingered on his hands, captivated by the strength of his fingers, the way his muscles bunched around the board. Her mouth fell open with a tiny groan—oh Gods if Tyrion heard that—she snapped her jaw shut with a clack of teeth.
Light as a cat Jaime tucked his feet beneath him, landing backward on the shoulder, spinning as white water rumbled at his heels. He made a few more deep slashes, finishing the run.
“Rodeo flip?” Brienne was kneeling, had crept forward during his ride. “…a gods damned rodeo flip? No one hits that on demand…just…shit.” Tyrion laughed behind her. Growling, she tossed sand in his direction before standing.
“He’ll be insufferable for the rest of the day. You really need to step it up and kick his ass tomorrow girl.”
Clenching her jaw. “Not girl…my name is…”
“Briennnne…I know.” He was grinning at her again, the look half mocking, half sincere affection. For Tyrion, the two seemed to go hand in hand.
“Lannisters.” She huffed, storming down the beach.
<><><><><><>
Jaime sought her out after his turn, hair stiff and damp, he dropped onto the end of her towel without invitation.
“I saw your ride.” She tried to keep the awe out of her voice, lowering the octave, flattening the peaks. “It was…”
“Okay right?” He flicked the water from his hair with both hands, Brienne was staring at his fingers again, the way the tendons in his forearms shifted with the movement. “Not bad for an old guy anyway.”
“Stop that…you’re not…” Jaime hunched, shaking droplets into the sand. He gazed at her through squinted eyes, and she lost her voice. He was too much. Brienne looked to the waves, thinking of how he twisted through the air. “Your ride was breathtaking.” She sighed the word, it rumbled deep in her chest.
He froze, eyebrows raised and mouth slightly ajar, then wiped the look away so fast she thought it imagined. “Why did you hold back?” Shocking her with his directness, no preface of nice job or great score. Straight to the bones of it.
“I was afraid of what they would say if I missed.” She nodded in the direction of a group of surfers standing together, watching the other contestants.
“You wussed out on the air, but it was an amazing first run…and they are saying ‘she shouldn’t be here’.” Brienne scrunched her face, and he placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. “If you attempted the 360 and fell flat on your face they would say ‘she shouldn’t be here’.” The setting sun in his eyes was like a flame, the words caught fire in his throat. “Even if you threw it down—slayed it fast and tight, with big movement and towering air—they would find something else to talk about. Your teeth are large…your lips too puffy and broad…your shoulders ripple when you walk making all the other contestants look like frail little boys in comparison.” She jerked her head upright, his lips twitched in anticipation of her reaction.
“Anything else?” She raised a brow, fought back a fraction of a smile.
“You have a terrifying number of freckles.” He found her breaking point, Brienne jabbed him in the ribs with two fingers, hard enough to bruise. Jaime scooted away, yelping and smacking.
“You’re an ass Lannister.” She moved to stand, grabbing her hand he locked her in his stare.
“If I miss once…just once…they will say I’m through. Put him out to pasture.” His eyes burned, branding her with their green heat. “So I work relentlessly, hone my craft, care for my body…” He shook his head, a look like sadness. “…and when I make a perfect run—just like the hundred times I practiced it with no one watching—then it must be luck right? The rich boy who bought his success with daddy’s money, who probably paid off the judges.” He squeezed her hand tighter, leaned into her space. “They will find a reason to hate you, because they can never be you.”
“So what do you do?” She was staring at him wide eyed, his isolated pain filling the space between them.
“I beat them…I keep beating them…until I can’t.”
She squared her jaw, squeezed his hand in return. “We’ll beat them.”
Jaime’s lips curled back from his teeth, feral and challenging. “And then I’ll beat you.” Brienne growled, tried to release his hand but he locked her fingers in his, they ached with the pressure. Gods those hands.
“In your dreams old man.” Her breath came ragged, panting through an open mouth.
He released her with a laugh, the sound bright and crisp, outshining the waves. “See you later duck.”
“Duck?”
“You look like a giant duck…here…” Jaime ruffled the white-blonde hair sticking off the back of her head in a peak. “…and here.” He brushed her large, flat feet with one of his. “I noticed it at check in.”
“You thought I was a boy.” She stood, put a hand on her thick waist.
“A boy duck perhaps…but I know better now.” Shaking her head, she snatched her towel from under him.
“Bring it.” Jaime whispered the command. She nodded slightly.
Infuriating man.