Chapter Text
Jaime weaves in and out of traffic, racing through the narrow streets of Flea Bottom to get to the ballfield before it’s too late. He thinks, not for the first time, that maybe he should have taken a cab there. His car is flashy even for Old Gate, the swanky neighborhood on the north side of King's Landing where he lives. Jaime bought the car right before his last season—using his signing bonus to purchase the red Castamere with cash. He steps on the gas a little, taking the next corner faster than he should.
He checks the rearview mirror. Bakeries and bodegas blur past, reflected across the surface of his aviators. He shakes his head a little. This has got to be one of the most ridiculous things he’s done in his adult life. But Jaime needs a new shortstop and just any player won’t do—the Lannister Lions are league and district champs, several years running. It seems insane, but Jaime's got intel on this kid and he’s going to check her out. He had found out from his brother Tyrion, who had found out from his friend Jorah, that Jorah’s young cousin, Lyanna Mormont, might be interested in playing on Jaime’s Little League team. Apparently, she plays ball with her older sisters in a park at the foot of Rhaenys Hill on most Saturday mornings. Jorah said they were usually there until about ten and it was quarter til. Jaime can’t miss her so he speeds up.
He spots the diamonds, throws his car into park, and jogs to the bleachers. When he takes a seat, he realizes he’s not alone. There’s another man sitting at the end of the stands. He’s tall and blond, taking notes in a large folio like a coach would use. Jaime quickly spots Lyanna on the field. Tiny even for a nine year old, she is a natural athlete—throwing the ball with perfect form and accuracy. He keeps his eyes mostly on her, occasionally stealing irritated looks at the man with the notes, who also seems to be evaluating the miniature infielder.
What in the hell?
Lyanna and her sisters switch it up and the littlest Mormont steps to home plate. She takes a couple of practice swings, looking like a pro—like a shrunk-down version of her much-older sister, Dacey, who plays for the Bear Island Cubs. Lyanna cracks a line drive between second and third base and the man on the other end of the bleachers turns his head to follow the ball. Only, it’s her head. It’s a woman. When Jaime can see more of her face, he realizes that not only is it a woman, but he knows who she is.
What is Brienne Tarth doing here? Why isn’t she off at spring training?
In profile, she looks just like her father. Selwyn Tarth was one of the best players the sport ever saw and Brienne is pretty singular in her own right. A freshman starter and eventual team captain at Storm’s End College, she went on to be a star player for the Stormlands Thunderbolts for years. She is a great catcher but an even better hitter—her long arms giving her a wide swing and her legs capable of generating a ton of power. So why is Tarth in King’s Landing, sitting on rusted metal bleachers in a bad part of town, watching a couple of kids play ball? Women’s softball isn’t so desperate as to be scouting pre-teens, is it? Jaime thinks.
“Brienne Tarth,” he calls out. She swivels fully in her seat and looks at him with narrowed eyes, clearly suspicious of being recognized. “What on earth are you doing here?”
“I’m sorry, do I know you?” She seems genuinely confused, but she doesn’t ask kindly. It’s a little prickly and Jaime sits more upright.
“You don’t? Oh,” he sighs. “I’m heartbroken. I’m wounded.” Jaime clutches his chest in feigned insult. He is, of course, actually insulted. He knows who she is, shouldn’t she know who he is? Not that Jaime particularly follows her career—he just knows a lot about sports and is surprised to see her, that’s all. He’s not a “fan” or anything. Either way, his pride takes a hit when she doesn’t recognize him.
He reaches toward her, offering his left hand to shake. “Jaime Lannister.”
“Oh! I- I know who you are. I just...why are you here?” After she recovers from her initial surprise, a sour look takes over her face. Ah, yes, his lovely reputation follows him everywhere—even a decade later, to a rundown park on the wrong side of town.
As he watches her, unblinking, a fast flush of color sweeps across her cheeks, connecting her freckles together into a sea of pink. In person he can see how exceptionally unusual-looking she is. Her size doesn’t come across on tv or in print. Her lips are huge and her nose has obviously been broken at least once. She’s not what anyone would call pretty (or even handsome), but—oh!—her eyes. Her eyes are wide and a most unnatural blue, framed in pale, silvery lashes. And they are honed in on Jaime—one a judge and the other, the jury—evaluating “The Kingslayer,” and, of course, finding him lacking. He’s momentarily thrown by it all, but recovers quickly.
“I actually asked you first.” He says it somewhat playfully, but he’s feeling a little like he’s poised for a fight.
“I’m here to see if that girl wants to play for my Little League team.”
“Your Little League team?” Jaime laughs, incredulous. “Why are you even in King's Landing?”
“My dad died. I needed a change.” She looks away, off toward nothing.
“Shit, yes, I knew that. I’m sorry.” Fuck.
“Yes, well, thank you. So what are you doing here? The infamous Jaime Lannister?” Her voice drips with condescension and Jaime kind of loves it. Bring it on.
“Of course. Hmm. Well, obviously I don’t play ball anymore,” he holds up his prosthetic right hand and waves it around a little. “I’m just here to watch some quality children’s softball. Is that not a normal thing for a grown man to do on a Saturday morning?” Her face is priceless. She looks infuriated and exhausted and confused all at once. Bless, this is fun. “Weirdly, I’m also here to see if she wants to play for me.”
“You coach Little League?” Is that an insult? A compliment? It’s exceedingly unclear.
“I do. My kids are the best of the best. They’re league champs and district champs, and all the oldest players are on All-Stars.” Jaime tries to say it with a tone that might maintain his upper hand, but he’s so proud of the kids he coaches. They make him soft and he knows he’s gushing.
“Okay. Am I supposed to be impressed by that? They're kids. They play to have fun and learn about discipline, dedication, and teamwork.” She looks like she means that.
“Oh my god. You actually mean that. How sweet. Virtuous.” He laughs a little. It’s petty as hell but he doesn’t care. She turns away from him and he feels victorious.
The Mormonts seem like they are wrapping up. Brienne stands to approach them, and holy fuck she’s tall. She towers over Jaime, still rooted in spot on the bleacher, and she reminds him of a character out of a fantasy novel. Glowing eyes and platinum hair, shoulders as wide as that umpire’s, Sandor Clegane. Something in him gives a little and he decides not to fight her over the young athlete. He can’t tell if he’s doing it to be nice or to seem too good for it all. To throw Brienne a bone because of her weariness at the mention of her dad or to show her up and keep her guessing about their odd little introduction. Something about her makes him want to take care of her and obliterate her all at the same time. It’s highly entertaining.
Jaime slips away without another word to Brienne, although she doesn’t seem to notice, absorbed as she is with Lyanna—down on one knee, talking animatedly, smiling a big crooked smile. It’s a little much, if he’s honest. He loves the kids on his team, but he tries not to coach them in a dorky, After-School-Special kind of way.
Starting the trek to his home across the hill, he keeps a much slower pace—winding past the same small row houses and storefronts before crossing The Street of The Sister and leaving Flea Bottom behind. He takes it all in—the neighborhoods getting nicer and greener as he moves through increasingly wealthy blocks of streets. He pulls up to his limestone townhouse on Balerion Boulevard. The towering tree out front casts dappled midday light across the arched windows and large front door. He throws on his flashers and locks the car, before sending a text to his garage. Leaving the car at the curb for the attendant to pick up, he trudges up the steps of his historic home.
Jaime drops his things in a pile on the floor of the foyer, heads straight to the kitchen, and pulls a container of food out of the fridge. He checks the label: SATURDAY LUNCH - Chicken breast with haricot verts and herbed quinoa. Heat in the oven at 350deg for 20 min or microwave uncovered for 3 min . He rolls his eyes, throws the meal in the microwave and grabs a beer. He takes a sip and leans against the counter, watching the timer tick down. The microwave’s LCD bids him “BON APPETIT!” and Jaime realizes it’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to him all day. He eats the unevenly warmed, professionally-prepared meal standing at his kitchen island.
When he’s finished, dishes placed in the sink, still covered in bits of food, he grabs another beer and heads to his den. He has a television in his living room, and a comfortable-enough couch, but he prefers to spend time in the den. He feels less alone in there, since it seems a room built for solitude: the weirwood desk, an unmovable presence; shelves of books are conversations in wait; his soft leather couch, physical and enveloping. He settles in.
The game is on—the Crownlands Classic: King's Landing Kingsguard versus the King's Landing Gold Cloaks. Jaime loves watching this matchup, as bittersweet as it is. He misses almost everything about playing ball but this game especially: the energy of the crowd, whether at home or at the Gold Cloaks’ Dragonpit Field, the cheers and jeers of the fans, signing autographs, winning (which the Kingsguard usually did). But the thing he misses most is being a part of a team. All the other stuff had felt temporary at best and some of it actually hadn't been so great—but the guys? His team? They'd been everything. They'd supported him through the unfortunately enduring Kingslayer scandal. They'd laughed with him through the endless rumors about who he was dating (no one of any significance). They'd been by his side through his injury and recovery. They'd been his friends—and his family, when his real family was often absent and neglectful.
Gods he misses it.
“Gods, I miss that,” he says to his TV, to the empty room.
Jaime grabs his phone and pulls up Twitter. It looks like most of the accounts he follows are talking about the game—he really only goes on the app for baseball-related content so that’s no surprise. He keeps his identity hidden online, so he can just enjoy chatting without getting dragged into the past or dealing with any of his few remaining fans. It’s exhausting. He is thumb-flicking content up the screen and he stops when he sees that one of his favorite accounts, @SapphireSlugger, is live-tweeting the game. This should be good. The poor sap is a Gold Cloaks fan. They almost never beat the Kingsguard but they’ve been playing especially bad since losing their hot-shot pitcher last season.
Sapphire Slugger @SapphireSlugger · 21min
The King's Landing Gold Cloaks are taking the field. Mandon Moore is stepping in to relieve Edric Storm at the top of the seventh. Let’s see if the newcomer can keep the momentum set by Storm.
Golden Glove @GoldenGlove79 · 17min
Replying to @SapphireSlugger
Momentum? You can’t possibly think there’s even a remote chance that the Gold Cloaks will win. Their bullpen is a joke. # lolGoldCloaksSapphire Slugger @SapphireSlugger · 13min
Replying to @GoldenGlove79
Of course you support The Kingsguard. It’s totally fine to be a casual sports fan. Hang out in the bleachers! Drink some beers! Chat with your friends, take a selfie! Don’t worry about the professional ball game going on in front of you.Golden Glove @GoldenGlove79 · 11min
Replying to @SapphireSlugger
Casual sports fan? If you only knew. And I’m sorry you hate winners so much.Sapphire Slugger @SapphireSlugger · 8min
Replying to @GoldenGlove79
Winners? The Kingsguard are showy. They’re The Man. They’re big money. Anyone could win with big money behind them. I support the hometown team. The team of and for the people.Golden Glove @GoldenGlove79 · 6min
Replying to @SapphireSlugger
The losers. Gotcha. I understand perfectly.Sapphire Slugger @SapphireSlugger · 5min
Replying to @GoldenGlove79
The Gold Cloaks are so much more interesting than The Kingsguard! Everyone loves an underdog.Golden Glove @GoldenGlove79 · 3min
Replying to @SapphireSlugger
Not me. I like champions. I like overdogs.
Shit, he thinks, after hitting send. Is that weird? It’s weird. Overdog sounds dirty somehow. He’s not sure how, but it definitely does. It sounded funny in his head. Anyway, Jaime gets it. He understands why people don’t like teams or athletes that just win all the time. But fuck if he’s leaving a conversation without defending how badass his old team is. When SapphireSlugger doesn’t respond, Jaime doesn’t know if they were just upset that the Gold Cloaks lost or if overdogs truly was too odd to come back from.
————————————————
The ball whizzes across the field and Brienne can see the whole scene playing out before it even happens: the first and second basemen colliding and tumbling to the ground, the ball rolling away forgotten. For the fifth time in the last hour, she wonders why she ever agreed to do this. Getting this ragtag team of kids ready to play even one inning of baseball is going to be a challenge, let alone making it through the whole season.
But of course she had said yes when Catelyn asked her to coach her kids’ flailing Little League team. Brienne says yes to almost everything—an endless need to please in order to make up for the fact that she lacks in other areas. Using her generosity and loyalty to apologize for her size and awkwardness. It’s an instinct she’s had her entire life. Besides all that, Catelyn Stark was an old family friend and had been extremely supportive through Brienne’s relocation to King's Landing. And she had flat-out begged Brienne to do it.
As the two fallen boys dust themselves off, Sansa Stark steps to the plate and clumsily raises her bat. She’s a pretty girl, with pale skin and long auburn hair, tell-tale signs that she’s Catelyn’s daughter. She’s tall and graceful for a twelve-year-old, but she’s not athletic like her younger sister, Arya, and she looks exceedingly out of place on the field—more of a dancer than a fielder. Arya herself is on the pitcher’s mound for today’s practice and she sends a slow, kind lob sailing past her sibling. She looks as disappointed as Sansa does at the lack of contact between the bat and ball.
Bran and Rickon, the two youngest Starks, are also on Brienne’s team. The sad thing is, the Starks are the best athletes she has besides Lyanna and a shy and smiley kid named Podrick Payne. Pod isn’t particularly great but he’s coachable, at least. The rest of the team is a mess of tripping feet, dropped balls, and nose-picking. The boy in left field keeps sitting down in the grass and looking for bugs. The kids are sweet but it seems clear most are being forced to play ball by concerned or overeager parents.
Brienne has her work cut out for her and there’s a lot riding on her success. The League’s Board of Directors recently voted, 6-4, to downsize the league by one team in order to reallocate funding and streamline the season’s schedule. Whichever team finishes the season with the worst record will be disbanded and the players will be split across the remaining ten teams. The Starks are especially concerned, as it might mean scattering their kids across different teams. It’s part of the reason Cat sought Brienne out to coach this season. They just need to win enough games so that they don’t come in last place. Hopefully she can find a couple more good players before the first game of the season. And hopefully some of the other teams in the league are as hapless as hers?
Either way, at least coaching gives her something to do here in King's Landing. She still feels a little like this life isn’t hers; the transition had been so fast. When her dad got sick last spring, Brienne had immediately dropped everything to be with him. The cancer spread quickly, already too far along, and they only had a couple of months together before he was gone. At first the grief swallowed her whole—her last living family member, and only support system, gone. When she finally dug herself out and thought she might be ready to return to her life, it didn’t feel like hers anymore. Playing pro ball had been everything she ever wanted, but now it just reminded her of him—of a childhood spent watching his home games from behind the Tarth Islanders’ dugout and watching away games on the small television set in her living room, nestled between her then-living mother and brother.
Now she’s here. A 32-year-old woman, about to start a new job in a new city with no family—coaching a bunch of 9-12 year old outcasts who don’t know a bunt from a base hit. Feels fitting.
Brienne calls the team to home plate to wrap up the practice. As she’s heading infield, she notices Jaime Lannister standing along the third base fence. He’s watching the team, watching her. Tall and golden, he looks half a god. She can’t believe she hadn’t recognized him at first. He’s possibly the most beautiful man she’s ever seen in real life. He gives her a small and, she thinks, patronizing wave. Brienne jerks her head away—turning her attention back to her team. She gives the kids a pep talk while Cat hands out food. They're more interested in snacks than sports, and Brienne loses her audience while expounding on the importance of spending a little time every day practicing their skills.
After the last kid shuffles off, stumbling as he waves good-bye, Brienne scans the field to make sure she’s clear to leave. She spots Jaime in the dirt lot, pulling bats and balls out of his car. She’s still baffled that he’s a coach. She’d always pictured Little League coaches like Walter Matthau—grumpy old men with hearts of gold, sneaking beers in the dugout. Jaime is definitely not that, with his purposely disheveled hair and tanned skin. He looks like a model for trendy athleisure wear, not a kids’ baseball coach. She walks over to her old beat-up hatchback coincidentally parked next to his ostentatious sports car.
“Hey, Coach.” Jaime really hits the hard ‘C’, his enunciation making it somehow sound like an insult.
“Why were you watching us? Were you spying on me? On my team?”
He laughs—a big, unchecked guffaw. “Spying? On that team? You must be delusional. Some of those kids wore jeans to practice.” It’s rude. He’s rude. But it doesn’t really sound mean as much as incredulous and, well, she knows. She knows her team is kind of a joke. But she’s not going to back down, not from him—not from the Kingslayer. Someone with so little honor that they would stab their mentor in the back in order to advance their own career. She doesn’t trust him as far as she can throw him—which would not be far, judging by his broad shoulders and the swell of his forearms. She gives her head a quick shake to clear it and pulls her mind away from his lean, taut muscles. Gods, Brienne.
“They’re getting there,” she says with narrowed eyes. “And, again, it’s the experience that matters—despite whatever you think. I’m going to help these kids learn hard work and teamwork. They’ll make friends, have a good time. Get a little dirty, eat some snacks. You know, childhood . It seems like your team will just learn that winning is the only thing that’s important. Maybe you can raise a bunch of jocks and Mean Girls—people who would turn on their friends. Their heroes. Loyalty be damned. Maybe they’ll also master that sneer you wield for people you deem less than worthy. Sounds like a true masterclass in success.”
Jaime looks as dumbfounded as she feels. Brienne doesn’t think she’s ever talked to someone like that before. Usually she thinks of comebacks hours later. Laying in bed at night, she thinks of the perfect admonishing thing to say to the guy who cut in front of her at Starbucks. As a man exits the subway at Cobbler’s Square, Brienne thinks of how she could have stood up to him when he'd stolen the last seat out from under a pregnant woman. But she never says the right thing, at the right time. It should feel better than this, she thinks.
Leaving Jaime standing there with his mouth hanging open and a bag of baseballs hanging over his shoulder, she climbs into her car. She puts her keys into the ignition and buckles her seatbelt, steadfastly ignoring his gaze that continues to follow her. Reaching into her bag, she pulls her phone out to check and see if there are any messages from Hyle. There are not.
When she'd left Storm’s End last month she'd left behind Hyle Hunt—her boyfriend of eight months. She had thought they would break up when she announced her move, but he hadn't suggested it and she hadn't been able to gather the nerve to end it. Hyle was only her second real boyfriend and while he was not, in any way, perfect, he was interested in dating her (now, anyway, after being an absolute dick when they first met). And so, yeah, he likes her and it’s fine and she isn’t sure when another guy might come along who would see her as anything more than an overly-freckled, overly-large bore. Hell, she only recently stopped seeing herself that way.
Brienne types out a simple “missing you!” text. She knows it’s only partially true but she hits send, anyway. He’s responded by the time she’s home and parking her car in the large underground garage of her new apartment complex.
Hyle: i miss you making dinner. cooking sux. ;)
Brienne: Cooking for one isn’t very exciting, is it? I don’t have a good routine here, yet, so it’s hard. I’m still checking out different grocery stores and shops to see which has the best stuff. King's Landing is so huge. It’s intimidating!
Hyle: KL is too big. ooh - maybe i’ll order in. how’s work?
Brienne: I don’t start for months, Hyle. Practice starts in August, right before the kids go back to school. I have a meeting at the high school next week, though. I am kind of nervous about it.
Hyle: it’s just a hs coaching job. girls softball. you’ll be fine.
Brienne: Softball and counselling. I’m also going to be a guidance counselor, remember? Anyway, I just got home. I should grab some dinner.
Hyle: sweet. gonna play grand theft auto and order some wings. later.
She doesn’t bother to text good night. She knows he’s already put his phone down and moved on. She forces herself not to examine their exchange too closely and she heads to the kitchen. Waiting for the oven to preheat, she checks Twitter. Brienne isn’t much for social media—being not particularly social—but Baseball Twitter is its own thing. Without a lot of close friends, it’s been her main source of entertainment and companionship through her dad’s death and the big move. It’s made everything just a little easier.
Pulling up the app, the first tweet she sees is from @GoldenGlove79. They share a strong love of baseball, but argue over most every detail of the sport—from their favored teams to controversial calls by umps. She knows he respects her dad from some of the things he’s said. It makes her secretly smile. No one aside from a few friends knows that Brienne is SapphireSlugger, so GoldenGlove can’t make the connection that she’s Selwyn’s daughter.
He’d sent her a DM last month (surely he’s a he , right?), checking in to see if she was okay. Her account had gone silent for a few days during her move—pretty uncharacteristic since she started her account a couple of years back. It was an unexpected gesture in a time when she really needed it, and they’ve been communicating more ever since
Golden Glove @GoldenGlove79 · 2h
It’s pizza + movie night with the nieces and nephews. This week's viewing is a "Rookie of the Year" / "The Sandlot" double feature. How old do kids have to be before they can watch Major League? Asking for a friend.
Brienne smiles and taps the little heart under the tweet before replying.
Sapphire Slugger @SapphireSlugger ·5min
Replying to @GoldenGlove79
Maybe you could try A League of Their Own. That could be a good compromise.Golden Glove @GoldenGlove79 · 3min
Replying to @SapphireSlugger
Bless you. You just saved me from a week’s worth of texts with four preteens, trying to agree on next week’s film of choice.Sapphire Slugger @SapphireSlugger ·1min
Replying to @GoldenGlove79
"You got yourself in the league. I got you on the train."
GoldenGlove likes her tweet. She smiles and scrolls a bit more but she startles when the oven dings ready.
