[ She watches him, her expression betraying nothing, least of all offence. And she is not offended – as obsessed as Stannis had been with duty, he had, every so often, been entirely alone in it, and in the end, both his idea of duty and her misguidance had let him to his demise. Shouldn't she pay for it? How much of the truth in front of her had she ignored, for him?
She drinks as deeply as he, wine dripping from the jug and vanishing on her red cloak, and offers it back to him, like a torch passed on. ]
You do not believe in it? [ She sounds amused, too, but it could also just be her lilting accent. ] Asshai is where I came from, so I wouldn't I belong there?
[ But the everlasting shadows do not tempt her much. She prays to R'hllor for dawn every night, there is pleasure in actually seeing it come to pass. ] I believe we all have purpose. There is purpose even in prolonged misery, however, and who wants to believe in that?
You'd be surprised how many people want to believe in that. [ Jaime does, at any rate, or at least he does when the misery is necessary to give Cersei what she wants.
When he gets the jug back, he peers into it. It's almost halfway done. He makes some gesture with his false hand down towards the floor, then moves to sit on it. While the wights had destroyed anything in this room resembling structure, the furs that had been on the floor are intact enough they're recognisable even around the rips. ]
Of course, [ there's a small grunt when he settles properly, his cloak undone and fluttering to a heap behind him ] purpose can change. It's not a concept everyone wants to believe, but it can.
I came from Casterly Rock, all the way in the Westerlands. [ He takes a good gulp of wine, passes it over, and this time offers Melisandre a crooked smile as he does it. ] I'm the eldest son of the noble family-- lord and heir, with my father dead and my name scratched off the Kingsguard. But I don't belong there. And I haven't for a very long time.
It would be so much simpler if everyone was meant to stay where they came from. [ He turns his head, meeting Melisandre's gaze with a slight furrow of his brow. ] Imagine what the world would be if the Targaryens stayed in Valyria.
But people want. And purposes change. And sometimes it becomes even more depressing and desolate than it was to begin with, but sometimes you strike gold.
[ Jaime makes a thoughtful sound. ] I don't think I've ever struck gold. But honestly, I don't care much for it.
If your Lord of Light's let you live, perhaps he's also set you free. And with all that support from your god, well-- you might have better luck than I do.
[ She kneels down on the fur beside him, folded as if for prayer, her red robes spilling around her like blood, and thinks of Stannis. It had given him some sense of pleasure, among all her visions and predictions and all the times she had been so infuriatingly right, to find things she did not know – like her failure to identify which specific animal a fur came from, or what that animal even looked like.
He has an easy smile to answer, this Jaime Lannister. Fate played him cruelly, she thinks, as she takes a sip of wine, more measured, this time. It is stronger than she thought it would be. ]
If we had both lived the lives we were born into... [ Never has she spoken this truth out loud, though of course, most people who know the first thing about the Red God knows how he comes about the servants, the whores, the warriors, and the priests in his Temple. ] Well, who is to say you may never have travelled to Essos, or that I might never have been sent here. No Lord would remember the face of a slave.
[ But that's just the thing, isn't it? ]
I cannot be free. I cannot strip of my priesthood anymore than I could look into a fire and see only flame, it is burned into my very core. Just like the world could bleed you dry, and yet you would still be from the Westerlands, you would still be Ser Jaime.
[ She watches him closely, but without judgment, only with curiosity. She thought it had left her, somewhere around the time she had been horribly, cruelly wrong about Azor Ahai, but now curiosity is back, and she wants to know him, perhaps because there is kinship in being displaced. Instead of voicing this thought, she hands him the jug. ]
Where would you go, if you could be anyone, anywhere?
[ It's depressing to be told that freedom is impossible. It's even more so knowing that he will always be Ser Jaime of the Westerlands, knight of the Kingsguard and son of Tywin Lannister. Of all those things he's only ever wanted one of them, and that had turned out to be one of the most poorly thought decisions of his life. Life was simpler when he thought being a knight was the greatest thing on earth. Life was simpler when he wanted things and believed he could have them.
But as he takes the wine back, he offers it a look, moving it enough that the liquid swishes and shakes inside. Jaime thinks about her question. The expression on his face sobers for all of a second before he decides to take a swig instead. ]
I like being me. [ He pauses, then snorts a laugh that has him dipping his head. ] Perhaps "like" is the wrong word for it... but there's no-one else I can be.
And I would be by Cersei's side. I don't think I've ever been anywhere else, I wouldn't know what to do. And the way that things are going... [ His lips press together in a frown, curving down in the most exaggerated way, and he hands the jug over with another 'heh'. ] I may die by dragon fire. Burned to bones and ash the way I watched so many people perish under Aerys Targaryen's mad, mad ways.
[ Smiling, Jaime watches the fire, his fringe brushing over his forehead as he tilts his head. ] It would be fitting. I'd let so many people die that way because I didn't want to be an oathbreaker. Fat lot of good that did me.
[ His brows furrow, deep suddenly. Jaime's fingers uncurl from the jug when it's taken from him. ] ...I only worry about my brother. He'll need someone to take care of him when I die. To protect him.
I hope someone loves him. I fear I may no longer be able to.
Your brother is strong. If I can tell, so will someone else, and perhaps, that will be enough to give him a good life in whatever world dragon fire leaves for those who live past this war.
[ She wonders, wine-struck, if Melony had had brothers, or sisters. If she would have fallen in some cursed love with one of them, if being allowed to love more than the Lord of Light, even a love cast in so much shadow, would be worth it all. ]
You will return to her? [ It is, and it is not, a question. She thinks of the female knight downstairs, drinking, likely wondering where Jaime had gone. Her outer robe falls behind her, and the red gown she has underneath has more hidden parts, little sections of pockets in her sleeve. How easy would it be, to pay blood in blood, to slip a single Tear of Lys into her cup and let the strangler do its job.
But the girl had done her duty. Stannis will remain dead, he must have died not far from here. And no amount of poison could deny Melisandre's own responsibility for his death. ] It is responsibility, isn't it? You were with her for so long, it's a lie to separate all her actions from your own, and vice versa.
[ She takes a sip of wine that she shouldn't take, and hands the jug back to Jaime, her movement certainly no longer as elegant and smooth at it had been before they had started drinking. ]
Perhaps it is unwise to say so, and I hope you can forgive me for this boldness... I am sorry about your children.
[ He laughs, first, at the sound of responsibility. At the thought of separation. ] Cersei and I are the same. You can't separate something that's whole without blood. [ He says this with conviction, with a bitter mix of pride and love and resignation; nothing else matters, but perhaps if he'd been a different man, other things might have.
Evidently, however, caring about things only ever leads to pain. Loving Cersei hurts, sometimes, but it's a pain he's willing to bear. Loving Tyrion hurts, sometimes, but it's a pain he's willing to bear. Loving his father had hurt all the time, and still Jaime had done it all the same. And loving his children-- Myrcella and Tommen, at least, and Joffrey in this bizarre way he found inescapable, even for how despicable he was...
Jaime will carry any pain as long as it's carried for his family, and he's not sure what to feel about that. He's not sure if he can run away from it, and if he even wants to. But it's too late for him to be anything else, he knows this much, and so he takes the jug from Melisandre's shaking grip and lifts it in a small pseudo-toast before he tilts his head back and gulps it down. A bit of the drink spills out the corner of his mouth, but this time Jaime doesn't bother wiping it as it crashes into his leathers and drips down. ]
My children [ he claims them, here and now, alone with this woman who spoke to some god and lit things on fire ] weren't your fault. You didn't even know them. [ Licking the excess off his lips, he hands the jug over with the smallest sway. Jaime is the only Lannister who can't hold his wine, embarrassingly enough. ]
I didn't even know them. Not really. I don't know if I wanted to, any more... I suppose if you tell yourself something enough, you might start to think it's true, [ Jaime's head tilts, the grin on his face sharp ] but falsehoods are always exposed in the end.
[ This is unwise, she has already had too much, and used too much of her power the night before. This is not like poison, she cannot clean it from within herself, in wine, she, too, is merely human. She spills none of it, in spite of her untidy movements and the blurry edges the world has taken on.
It takes more than one attempt to hand it back.
How many times, she wonders, had he spoken those words? To his sister, more of a wife than Selyse had been to Stannis, perhaps? Certainly not to strangers, they had tried to find evidence of that to no avail. Not that it matters now – they are gone, ascended if they were lucky, though she sincerely doubts that. ]
I cursed your oldest, once, with blood. [ That isn't knowing, though. ] But these things are fickle. It isn't what killed him any more than it killed the Young Wolf. And what killed Renly...
[ Everybody wants a miracle. Very, very few people want to know what it takes to wring a miracle from the hands of God. ]
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no subject
She drinks as deeply as he, wine dripping from the jug and vanishing on her red cloak, and offers it back to him, like a torch passed on. ]
You do not believe in it? [ She sounds amused, too, but it could also just be her lilting accent. ] Asshai is where I came from, so I wouldn't I belong there?
[ But the everlasting shadows do not tempt her much. She prays to R'hllor for dawn every night, there is pleasure in actually seeing it come to pass. ] I believe we all have purpose. There is purpose even in prolonged misery, however, and who wants to believe in that?
no subject
When he gets the jug back, he peers into it. It's almost halfway done. He makes some gesture with his false hand down towards the floor, then moves to sit on it. While the wights had destroyed anything in this room resembling structure, the furs that had been on the floor are intact enough they're recognisable even around the rips. ]
Of course, [ there's a small grunt when he settles properly, his cloak undone and fluttering to a heap behind him ] purpose can change. It's not a concept everyone wants to believe, but it can.
I came from Casterly Rock, all the way in the Westerlands. [ He takes a good gulp of wine, passes it over, and this time offers Melisandre a crooked smile as he does it. ] I'm the eldest son of the noble family-- lord and heir, with my father dead and my name scratched off the Kingsguard. But I don't belong there. And I haven't for a very long time.
It would be so much simpler if everyone was meant to stay where they came from. [ He turns his head, meeting Melisandre's gaze with a slight furrow of his brow. ] Imagine what the world would be if the Targaryens stayed in Valyria.
But people want. And purposes change. And sometimes it becomes even more depressing and desolate than it was to begin with, but sometimes you strike gold.
[ Jaime makes a thoughtful sound. ] I don't think I've ever struck gold. But honestly, I don't care much for it.
If your Lord of Light's let you live, perhaps he's also set you free. And with all that support from your god, well-- you might have better luck than I do.
no subject
He has an easy smile to answer, this Jaime Lannister. Fate played him cruelly, she thinks, as she takes a sip of wine, more measured, this time. It is stronger than she thought it would be. ]
If we had both lived the lives we were born into... [ Never has she spoken this truth out loud, though of course, most people who know the first thing about the Red God knows how he comes about the servants, the whores, the warriors, and the priests in his Temple. ] Well, who is to say you may never have travelled to Essos, or that I might never have been sent here. No Lord would remember the face of a slave.
[ But that's just the thing, isn't it? ]
I cannot be free. I cannot strip of my priesthood anymore than I could look into a fire and see only flame, it is burned into my very core. Just like the world could bleed you dry, and yet you would still be from the Westerlands, you would still be Ser Jaime.
[ She watches him closely, but without judgment, only with curiosity. She thought it had left her, somewhere around the time she had been horribly, cruelly wrong about Azor Ahai, but now curiosity is back, and she wants to know him, perhaps because there is kinship in being displaced. Instead of voicing this thought, she hands him the jug. ]
Where would you go, if you could be anyone, anywhere?
no subject
But as he takes the wine back, he offers it a look, moving it enough that the liquid swishes and shakes inside. Jaime thinks about her question. The expression on his face sobers for all of a second before he decides to take a swig instead. ]
I like being me. [ He pauses, then snorts a laugh that has him dipping his head. ] Perhaps "like" is the wrong word for it... but there's no-one else I can be.
And I would be by Cersei's side. I don't think I've ever been anywhere else, I wouldn't know what to do. And the way that things are going... [ His lips press together in a frown, curving down in the most exaggerated way, and he hands the jug over with another 'heh'. ] I may die by dragon fire. Burned to bones and ash the way I watched so many people perish under Aerys Targaryen's mad, mad ways.
[ Smiling, Jaime watches the fire, his fringe brushing over his forehead as he tilts his head. ] It would be fitting. I'd let so many people die that way because I didn't want to be an oathbreaker. Fat lot of good that did me.
[ His brows furrow, deep suddenly. Jaime's fingers uncurl from the jug when it's taken from him. ] ...I only worry about my brother. He'll need someone to take care of him when I die. To protect him.
I hope someone loves him. I fear I may no longer be able to.
no subject
[ She wonders, wine-struck, if Melony had had brothers, or sisters. If she would have fallen in some cursed love with one of them, if being allowed to love more than the Lord of Light, even a love cast in so much shadow, would be worth it all. ]
You will return to her? [ It is, and it is not, a question. She thinks of the female knight downstairs, drinking, likely wondering where Jaime had gone. Her outer robe falls behind her, and the red gown she has underneath has more hidden parts, little sections of pockets in her sleeve. How easy would it be, to pay blood in blood, to slip a single Tear of Lys into her cup and let the strangler do its job.
But the girl had done her duty. Stannis will remain dead, he must have died not far from here. And no amount of poison could deny Melisandre's own responsibility for his death. ] It is responsibility, isn't it? You were with her for so long, it's a lie to separate all her actions from your own, and vice versa.
[ She takes a sip of wine that she shouldn't take, and hands the jug back to Jaime, her movement certainly no longer as elegant and smooth at it had been before they had started drinking. ]
Perhaps it is unwise to say so, and I hope you can forgive me for this boldness... I am sorry about your children.
no subject
Evidently, however, caring about things only ever leads to pain. Loving Cersei hurts, sometimes, but it's a pain he's willing to bear. Loving Tyrion hurts, sometimes, but it's a pain he's willing to bear. Loving his father had hurt all the time, and still Jaime had done it all the same. And loving his children-- Myrcella and Tommen, at least, and Joffrey in this bizarre way he found inescapable, even for how despicable he was...
Jaime will carry any pain as long as it's carried for his family, and he's not sure what to feel about that. He's not sure if he can run away from it, and if he even wants to. But it's too late for him to be anything else, he knows this much, and so he takes the jug from Melisandre's shaking grip and lifts it in a small pseudo-toast before he tilts his head back and gulps it down. A bit of the drink spills out the corner of his mouth, but this time Jaime doesn't bother wiping it as it crashes into his leathers and drips down. ]
My children [ he claims them, here and now, alone with this woman who spoke to some god and lit things on fire ] weren't your fault. You didn't even know them. [ Licking the excess off his lips, he hands the jug over with the smallest sway. Jaime is the only Lannister who can't hold his wine, embarrassingly enough. ]
I didn't even know them. Not really. I don't know if I wanted to, any more... I suppose if you tell yourself something enough, you might start to think it's true, [ Jaime's head tilts, the grin on his face sharp ] but falsehoods are always exposed in the end.
Especially the lies we tell ourselves.
no subject
It takes more than one attempt to hand it back.
How many times, she wonders, had he spoken those words? To his sister, more of a wife than Selyse had been to Stannis, perhaps? Certainly not to strangers, they had tried to find evidence of that to no avail. Not that it matters now – they are gone, ascended if they were lucky, though she sincerely doubts that. ]
I cursed your oldest, once, with blood. [ That isn't knowing, though. ] But these things are fickle. It isn't what killed him any more than it killed the Young Wolf. And what killed Renly...
[ Everybody wants a miracle. Very, very few people want to know what it takes to wring a miracle from the hands of God. ]
You haven't been much of a liar, here.