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Jaime Lannister stalked the party like the elegant beast the gossip columns called him. He prowled through the well-heeled celebrities, execs, wannabes, and hangers-on, always convivial, never making anyone feel that he was brushing them off, but never getting bogged down in a conversation he could not escape when his quarry finally appeared.
It was lucky he had not won anything tonight or even been nominated. He would not have had a moment to himself if he’d won and were carting around one of those absurd little statues that meant the world in the movie business. It would have been even worse if he’d been nominated and lost. Then everyone would have wanted to commiserate, taking the opportunity to backbite and trash the winner, their envy dripping from every pore. Jaime had already experienced both circumstances. It was part of the price of being the biggest movie star on the planet.
Tonight, he’d been merely a presenter. He did his duty as a past winner and repeated his fatuous lines (memorized, not off a cue card).
The green room had been the usual crowd of overly styled starlets, mid-level flunkies, and the ridiculously wealthy grabbing for the swag bags filled with junk they could afford to buy for themselves. There Jaime had heard it, the sound he’d been waiting for most of his life.
His circuit of the after-party brought him close to the main entrance once more, close enough to hear the dulcet tones of Mr. Varys and the nasal screech of Taena Merryweather doing the fashion commentary.
“I was surprised, Varys, surprised and let down. I expected more from her. Where was the Bebe T we’ve all come to love? I miss the days of the meat dress and the ugly duckling costume. All we got tonight was a standard gown that any starlet might have worn.” Taena complained.
“I don’t think that’s fair, Taena. She looked stunning. Olenna Tyrell is one of her idols, and she was here tonight to honor her. Lady O has always been a paragon of elegance. The blush goddess gown that Bebe wore was perfection on the stage. She looked positively angelic while she sang for Olenna.”
“I don’t know that anyone would ever describe Bebe T as looking angelic, certainly not her followers on Beautiful Beasts. They expect more from their idol than something Olenna might have worn fifty years ago. Or even the gold mini-dress she’s changed into now.”
The two commentators turned to where an enormously tall woman was signing autographs and taking pictures with fans who’d waited hours for the big names to walk the after-party red carpet.
Jaime’s eyes followed to where his quarry, all long-legged, six feet plus of her, shimmered in the artificial light that made the late night bright as day. Her straw blonde hair gleamed, and her dress moved on her rangy body like a golden waterfall. Her bright smile overshadowed the too-generous proportions of her mouth and the teeth that remained defiantly crooked even after the Westeros Dental Association called for her to set an example with orthodontics.
Jaime tried to hang onto his patience and his cool. What right did a twit like Taena have to insult a genuinely talented person? All Taena ever managed to achieve was parlaying a sex tape with two footballers into a career of being professionally bitchy.
Of course, Jaime had heard Bebe T on the radio, singing bouncy anthems of teenage lust and self-acceptance. His brother, Tyrion, admired her and listened to her music in the car. Still, Jaime had dismissed her as the latest iteration of the plastic princesses he’d “dated” for publicity in his teens and early twenties. The kind that never pushed themselves to be anything more than pretty and popular.
Then came tonight. Jaime had heard her, a glorious mezzo that caressed the classic tune that had made Olenna Tyrell a household name and screen legend fifty years before. Her voice was a bit throatier than Olenna’s, but that only made it more arresting. It grabbed him by the ears and the balls.
Jaime was shocked when he turned to the video display and saw who it was singing. The clown princess of pop, the enormous ugly girl who’d made a joke of herself with her outlandish costumes, wigs, and makeup before anyone else could do it to her.
She still wasn’t pretty, but her gown made the most of the meager assets her figure could boast, and her freckled skin looked like cream dusted with cinnamon. Her short, finger-waved hair was a pale blonde that seemed to glow under the stage lights rather than the rat's nest wigs that usually towered over her head. She wore only the minimum makeup needed for the TV cameras, and he could see her eyes. Suddenly, nothing else mattered but that voice and those deep blue orbs that reached across the screen and touched something vital in him that he never knew was there.
She was the one. The one Jaime’d been waiting for. He started writing the script when he was twenty-five. He’d been writing the songs even longer, hiding his guitar and singing lessons from his manager father, lest he was coerced into cutting a few top forty hits to tie in with the sitcom that made him a teenage heartthrob.
Now Jaime Lannister could finally make HIS movie.
If he could only manage to meet her.
Once Bebe T finally left the rope line of fans behind, she braved the poisonous Taena and the fawning Varys. Before she entered the club, she let her façade drop momentarily. The bright smile dimmed; she looked down at the floor for a second, then squared her shoulders and raised her eyes. The look on her face said, “I’m here. I’m here with you, beautiful people, and anyone who doesn’t like it can go to the seven hells.”
Or maybe Jaime was projecting. It’s what Alys would have felt. He’d have to add that to the script as soon as he got home.
Jaime worked his way towards her. He tried to avoid looking like a heat-seeking missile on target, but he did get some side eyes as he made his way over. He snagged a couple of champagne flutes and put himself squarely in her path.
“You must be thirsty after singing and your time with your fans.” The smile that charmed the masses, with plenty of dimple action, graced his three times sexiest man alive face.
Bebe T looked down on him. Her heels gave her several inches advantage. It wasn’t a position Jaime was used to being in. He was tall for an actor, frequently the tallest man in the room.
Unlike the beaming she did for the fans, she gave him a neutral smile. Bebe T took the flute from his hand, careful not to make contact with his fingers.
“Champagne does nothing to soothe the throat or the thirst, but it looks odd to be at one of these things without a glass in your hand, I suppose.” She raised the drink and barely wet her lips.
“Jaime Lannister.” Now that he had a hand free, he offered it to her.
“I know.” Her answering grip was firm and confident without being crushing, but the strength was there. She must have practiced long and hard to find a grip that conveyed that.
Her eyes darted around the room. Jaime felt mildly insulted. He wasn’t used to women not being riveted when he gave them his attention. But this was for art, for his vision. He’d find a way to convince her she wanted to be part of his dream project.
“Your performance tonight was excellent. I rather think Olenna was put out that yours may be the definitive version of her song.”
Bebe T looked at him askance. “Lady Olenna will always own any song she chooses to honor with her talent.”
“No offense meant to Olenna, but you gave it a new slant that made it fresh even though I’ve heard it a thousand times. That takes a talented singer.”
Her eyes darted around the room. Jaime was losing her.
“Have you ever given any thought to acting, Miss … I can’t call you Miss T, now can I?”
“Call me Bebe if you like.” The indifference was still there. He kind of liked it.
“Bebe, is that your real name?” Jaime peered into her amazingly blue eyes, the eyes that had captured him almost as thoroughly as her voice.
“It’s what the people in the entertainment industry call me, Mr. Lannister. My real name is for my real friends.” The indifference was progressing towards dislike. It wasn’t good for his purpose, but he liked that he riled her up when she always projected such a deeply tranquil public façade.
“Well, Bebe, my friends, enemies, and everyone in between call me Jaime. I am truly interested in whether you’ve considered acting. Film acting, that is. I know your performances call for a substantial amount of acting for your audience. I’ve been looking for the right person for a long time.”
***
Jaime had persisted the night of the party until Brienne agreed to read the script for what was apparently his passion project: a modern remake of an old movie about an established star and the young artist he falls for, her star rising as his own dimmed. He wanted to move the story out of the film world and into music, thinking that would work better for a modern take.
As Brienne started reading the script, it became apparent that whoever wrote it didn’t know much about the music business. Brienne made copious notes on the first pages; then, she began getting into it. The uncredited screenwriter might not know much about the life of a struggling singer or of a rock star, but they knew storytelling, character, and what made an audience care.
By the time she finished the script, Brienne was in tears, and she knew two things. This would be one of the best movies of its year if it were done right. And there was no way in hells that she could be in it.
It was too raw, revealing how a woman felt, thought, and desired. She would have to strip herself bare to do the character justice. And that wasn’t even considering the nude love scenes.
She made some more notes she thought might help the writer achieve a more believable story and sent it back to Jaime Lannister with a thanks but no thanks.
And Brienne thought that would be it. She hadn’t counted on the man’s stubbornness. It nearly rivaled her own.
He showed up backstage at her next few concerts, always trying to get a moment alone, not to plead his case, no, he was too clever for that, but to ask her for more details, more criticisms, more insight into what the characters of Alys and Jac would be like. She found herself answering them all. She liked arguing with him about what could be cast aside for the sake of the cinematic experience and what absolutely had to stay to have a prayer of feeling real.
Before Brienne knew it, six months had passed, her tour was over, and she was at loose ends before beginning work on her next album. So she reread the script's latest version on her tablet.
It was even better.
Brienne talked about it with some friends. They all had one of two reactions.
Why was she wasting her time on this when she had a new album to compose and record, social media followers to keep interested, charitable endeavors to support, and a reputation as one of the most outrageous people in entertainment to uphold?
Or
Why wasn’t she jumping at this chance? The part sounded perfect for her. She’d been a drama student until a cruel acting coach convinced her she was too big and ugly to be considered for any role but the butch villain or the asexual best friend. She’d only turned to music as her second choice. And it was Jaime freaking Lannister. She would get to romance, be naked with, and see the dick of Jaime Freaking Lannister!
She thought long and hard as Jaime was occupied with the final movie of the superhero franchise that had taken him from a washed-up and forgotten teen heartthrob and made him a bona fide movie star. She composed emails to him a dozen times before she finally sent one that hedged around the question so much that he immediately replied that he had no idea if she was interested in the part or wanted him to stop bugging her and get lost.
“Alys is a great part, Jaime. But not for me.”
Jaime persisted like a burr caught in her wig. He wanted to know what more he needed to do. She spent three months refusing his texts, his calls his emails. Finally, he’d finished the movie he’d been working on and thought he was ready to go. He made one last plea.
“If it’s not you, Bebe, the money guys insist on Daenerys Targaryen.”
Good gods that could not happen. Brienne had slaved to make Alys as honest as she possibly could. She could not turn the part over to Fire Barbie.
Then began the long and delicate negotiation of what Brienne was willing to do on screen and what she wasn’t. She lost on most of those. Jaime knew the film business. His family had been in front of and behind the camera for three generations. This movie would be his directorial debut and first credited screenplay, though he’d script-doctored several of his films, including the one that won all the industry awards.
If Brienne heard it once, she heard it a dozen times.
“You may know music, Bebe, but I know movies, and I know movie audiences. They have to see Alys do this (feel this, react to this); if they don’t, they’ll feel shortchanged, and so will you. You can’t ask me to leave this out of the movie because you’re afraid.”
Damn, she hated when someone realized she was afraid. And somehow, Jaime knew that and used it ruthlessly.
Finally, Jaime was ready for her to hear the songs.
Jaime barely had time to play the score once before he got her reactions raw.
“What the hells, Jaime? We spent all this time fixing the script without indicating that the songs were in even worse shape! Didn’t your composer know more than four chords?”
She almost cried when his face froze, and his warm green eyes turned cold.
Oh, shit. He wrote the script. Of course, he wrote the songs too.
Brienne tried to backtrack for a minute, then decided, no, she would have to be honest if things were going to work. And Jaime would hear worse from the critics if he used these amateurish songs in a major film. And it would kill the story.
“You may know movies, Jaime, but I know songwriting. The ideas are good, but the lyrics and the music are just basic.”
“I’ve been working on those songs since I was in high school.”
“And it sounds like it.” Brutal but true. “I bet you’ve never let anybody else hear them, have you? You’ve never gotten feedback from anyone who writes music.”
“Nooooo, but …”
“No buts, my friend. Other people need to hear your work. You need feedback. You need criticism. We are going to have to rework all of these completely.”
“We are?” Jaime smirked.
“If you want me in this movie, if you want me to do all the things that terrify me, you’ll have to let go of your ego. You’ve asked a lot of me. You have to be willing to give some yourself.”
Jaime had to return to his investors to let them know that, though Bebe T had agreed to do the part, she wanted to rework the music with him. He convinced them that it was a good thing. Bebe was one of the biggest stars in the world. Her composer credit on the score could only make it a bigger hit.
This time she and Jaime were in the same city, seeing each other almost daily. They had epic fights where they washed their hands of one another. They spent long, late evenings discussing what each song should say, where they should come in the script, and whose part of the story they were telling.
Brienne became entirely absorbed in the project and in him.
When Brienne realized she was in love with him, she froze physically and musically. Saying she was burned out, Brienne called a timeout and ran away to her favorite place in the world, her tiny island home on Tarth, far away from the glitz and glamor of her life.
Jaime gave her a week. Then he followed.
“Not to seem stalkerish, but what the hells is your problem?” He asked as she opened the door to her childhood home.
She yelled. He shouted. She wept. He slammed doors. And finally, the words came tumbling out, not from her but from him.
“What do I have to do, Brienne? Yes, I know your real fucking name, even if you’ve never told me I can use it. How do I have to prove myself to you, you stubborn wench? I’ve done everything but tear my heart out and throw it at your feet. Do you want me to take out a full-page ad in the trades? Big, bold headlines? Jaime Lannister announces that he is hopelessly, entirely in love with Brienne Tarth, also known as Bebe T! He doesn’t care that you think she’s unattractive. He doesn’t care that she’s taller than he is, probably stronger too. He loves her, and fuck all you all who want to laugh!”
Jaime looked at her shocked face, and his voice got very gentle. “He loves her. I love you, Brienne. We can make this movie or not. Write these songs or not. It doesn’t matter. You matter. We matter.”
They stayed very discreet for the rest of the time they were working on the songs. Nobody caught a whiff of the truth that they were in love. That they were lovers.
Just before filming began, they both knew the soundtrack was missing something. In their last few days, before pressing pause on their relationship while they filmed, they sat together and wrote one last song. A song of discovering love with all its hope and terror. A song about just closing your eyes and jumping in.
***
Brienne sat, waiting to be introduced. It had been four long years since she and Jaime had first met at the after-party. Jaime walked on stage first, and the house lights went out. A single spotlight caught his golden beauty as he picked up his guitar, played the opening riff, and leaned into the mike. Thousands of sighs echoed through the hall as his raspy voice rang out.
“Tell me something, girl …”
As the audience sat enraptured with Jaime, the stage silently moved her piano to the center. Another spot hit her as her verse began. Jaime’s guitar faded as she took over the melody,
“Tell me something, boy …”
Jaime silently put his guitar back on its stand and joined her on the piano bench as she sang her favorite line that summed up their lives before finding each other.
“Ain’t it hard keepin’ it so hardcore?”
Their voices joined together, acapella for the final chorus.
“We’re at the deep end; watch as we dive in.”
As her final note hung in the air, Jaime raised her left hand to his lips. Their matching gold bands caught the light on the big screens stationed around the theater, as gasps echoed around them.
***
They had won every award they were nominated for — Best Picture, Director, Screenplay, Actor, Actress, Score, and Song. Hand in hand, Jaime and Brienne walked the red carpet to the after-party, each carrying one statuette.
“And which of your awards did you bring with you?” Varys asked, edging out the sour-faced Taena.
Jaime grinned up at his wife. “Best song, of course. It was only working with my wife that made the others possible. It’s only right that we bring the one we share.”
“Did you two plan to announce your marriage so … eventfully tonight?” Taena elbowed Varys in the side to make room for her own mike.
“Not at all, Taena,” Brienne answered, “it wasn’t until Jaime started playing that I realized he hadn’t taken his ring off. So I slipped mine back on while waiting at the piano.”
“But, Jaime, why hide your marriage?” Taena's lips curled at the last word.
Brienne leaned her shoulder into her husband as she answered for him. “We didn’t want anything but the movie to be the story, Taena.” She smiled down at the gossip reporter, sweetness oozing from her with every word. “You might not believe this, but there are going to be some very nasty comments made about that weirdo Bebe T snagging the Jamie Lannister. Now the movie is appreciated for the masterwork that my husband created; there’s no reason not to celebrate all the wonderful things that came from it.”
Brienne began to brush by Varys and Taena to greet the fans lining the carpet. But Jaime lingered for a moment.
“And Brienne’s father is a very big guy who could break me with his little finger. We wanted to get the news out before the baby starts to show.”
With a beaming grin, Jaime Lannister went to join his wife.