edge_of_forever | (no subject)

Entry tags:

(no subject)

It had been days, weeks if he had counted correctly, though, with constant sun or moon the days seemed to blur from one to the next -- connected by a string of endless confusion and incredible indifference and apathy. He had lived to see a year come and go in the dank cells of Riverrun, he had faced Robb Stark and his direwolf, he had lost the most beloved thing to him -- his sword hand and now he was on a ship with no sails that traversed an ocean of black instead of blue and none of it made sense to him.

Of the few pleasant thoughts he had of his father was the night his mother died giving birth to Tyrion. Casterly Rock had been a riot that night, maids running in and out of the room with hot water and clean sheets, he had to hold back Cersei from running into the room. I want to see, Jaime! I'll have babies one day, I want to know! She battled with him but he didn't let her, father would be angry if she barged in. But, later that night after the screams of his mother had faded away and died out to the sounds of Tyrion's tears Jaime was taken out onto the balcony of his father's room. Tywin's heavy had rested on Jaime's shoulder and he explained that his mother was gone, that she had gone off into the stars to be with the gods. It had been the only time Jaime had seen his father vulnerable and now that day meant nothing, the stars were a place like any other with comings and goings and among those coming and going ... was not his mother.

He had made no friends in this place. He didn't understand it and if he had spent a year in the captivity of Robb Stark, he could survive a year here -- it was far more pleasant than any cell he'd ever seen. It was a cell nonetheless and he wandered its halls like a ghost that went mostly unseen and unheard from and although that image of his mother in the stars had been ripped from him by this place there was something incredibly pleasant about watching those stars slowly creep by and from the observation deck he saw them best. As he paced toward the enormous floor to ceiling window his arms came behind his back, his only hand gripping just above the scared flesh of where his right hand had once been.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

She had been here six weeks - enough time that her hair had been largely restored to its former glory, minus the very ends. It faded from red to a mousey brown, and she had given no one an explanation of why it was dyed. Not that horrid man who'd had the bag of rats, not anyone else. She would tell no one of how she'd been made to dye it, that the woman who'd insisted was dead but her father kept it the same. Alayne Stone somehow had no father to be a bastard, but had a father very well indeed. Petyr Baelish, a man to be respected and feared.

In those six weeks, she had spent hours sitting in this room. Days, perhaps. She watched the stars and thought about her life, wishing that she had something to keep her hands busy as she chased a million what-ifs, a thousand chances. What if the girl who married Ramsey Bolton was not Arya? What if Harry the Heir discovered her father's plan? What if Abed told everyone her name? What if those horrible machines spilled her secret? Would they hate her as well, because she had lied to them? Would Elijah brand her a liar, Zoe, Alistair? The people who she had met, who were not friends in every sense of the word but they were kind enough that she knew they were not truthful enemies - and Alayne would take what she could get.

She knew what it was like to wish to be alone, though, even in a room this size, and she slipped from the couch where she would sit, knees to her chest, and spoke softly. "I'm sorry, I didn't realise I was not the only person here." It was only when she spoke, when he turned, that her eyes widened, and she felt her heart jump into her throat, trapped there as her pulse beat like a baby bird, unable to say a word.

He had only just found this deck a few days ago since he had become so accustomed to his room, force of habit he figured. Although, he would never willingly return to it, once one had lived in a cell ... well, one cell was very much like the next, even one as nice as the one he had now. Nevertheless, in keeping to himself, he had kept to himself in the cell but upon discovering this tapestry of stars and suns, his feet always seemed to carry him here while wandering.

That sparrowy voice that came so softly made him pivot slowly, deliberately slow since he hadn't expected to be disturbed. "I didn't realize I-," had invited conversation by simply standing here was the rest of that but Sansa Stark was enough to quiet the usually clever knight and for a moment he forgot where he was. For that instant his head inclined slightly, his golden hair falling forward as he gave that halfhearted bow, something in his smile suggesting it was more protocol than anything else. "My Lady Star-... actually, Lady Lannister, isn't it?" Habit. It was habit to be rude and his face changed, his brows softened as if trying to apologize through his expression since Lannister's rarely found cause for apologies.

Her face was pale in the shining light of the stars, and for only a moment she looked... off-balance. Off kilter, like she was torn between tears and where she ended up, her face schooled into the perfect expression. Just careful enough. The politeness, the quiet assent to the man in front of her, to his blood, to his family - she had cultivated it over the year and more she had spent in King's Landing before Petyr brought her to the Eyrie.

"Technically," she said quietly, bowing her own head as she half-curtseyed; half, purely because she was in pants, pants and the hooded shirt and the sneakers that everyone where wore. "Although I have no knowledge if my husband is alive or dead." And Tyrion Lannister was anything but her husband in truth. She had been married to him for 5 months - and in the Eyrie for another year or more, but she knew that he had vanished from King's Landing much as she had. "I suppose that makes you family," she said, and the words sounded hollow to her own ears for of anyone to be standing in front of her, of any family to find her, it was Jaime Lannister. It was not Arya, wherever her sister was, if she was even alive - and it was not Jon Snow. Even if the man was a bastard, he shared her father's blood, and there was no one else.

There had been no one else for longer than she cared to say. "I had known you were here," she said quietly, staring up at him, her tone pitch perfect for propriety. "I met Lwaxana, and she had mentioned you. I am sorry I did not find you sooner."

It was a lie, but one she told with grace and even tone.

She was better than Cersei had ever been. She was able to control herself in ways that his sister could only lash out, rave and throw things. "I'm sure that little shit is alive and well," if he knew his brother he had talked himself into safety. Tyrion had the ability to talk himself or buy his way into the skirts of a septa if he wished it, Jaime didn't doubt his survival skills. He had survived the Vale, the Battle of Blackwater but his greatest feat was surviving King's Landing.

"It would make us family," his smile was actually genuine as impossible as they may seem for a Lannister. "I'm sorry we had not crossed paths sooner," not necessarily. Meeting her soon would mean he had to admit to being who he was and whatever came with being who he was.

Her nose wrinkled at his use of lewd language, and she raised a brow - clearly some form of really? as she sighed. "I of course hope for his continued health." She seemed to mean it as well, even though - even though she'd thought about it, and while she had no apparent enemy in Tyrion Lannister, her husband had 'helped' her in almost no ways at all - besides saving her, once. Saving her from the blades of the Kingsguard, of being stripped in the public square. That, she was grateful for - and she considered it repayed. She married him. She became a Lannister, technicaly.

And a Lannister always pays her debts.

"I largely keep to myself," she said quietly of why they had not met. "But I have been here since the first day." She paused for a moment, and then- "As family, may I ask you a favor?" Her blue eyes sparked with intelligence, but it was a careful request. "There are many here who know me as Alayne Stone. I will... explain to them, but please do not take it upon yourself to do so, if it would come up." She knew very well that he may ask her why, but if he did or he did not, she still must ask it all the same.

He would explain that he wasn't exactly himself, had he known that she was insulted by his lewdness but it was somewhat Jaime's way -- though, in front of a Lady as exiled as her family was, as tarnished as her reputation was ... well, it was only befitting her station and her relation to him for him to be far more respectful. "Don't we all," he mocked when she spoke of Tyrion's health. After his confessions to murdering Joffrey and what hurt him far worse ... she's been fucking Lancel and Osmund Kettleblack and probably Moon Boy for all I know. But, that was beyond his control or care now. She had moved past him, as much as he begged her for what they had always wanted and was now in her power to have, she resisted anyway. He was no longer who he had been and was mostly worthless. So, he cared little for everyone ... as everyone could care little for him.

"The first day?" He didn't know exactly when that had been since he had kept entirely to himself and had learned little to nothing since he arrived but her request for a favor made his brows rise slightly, "if it is within my power." Alayne Stone, she was making herself pass as a bastard ... but that didn't matter here and his brows furrowed with confusion. "Why, mas I ask?"

As a place to spend time in silence, the observation deck served its purpose excellently. There was a constantant low monotonous humm, evidence of the ship's inner workings and its travel through space, and otherwise, it was perfectly still.

And though it was publicly available, Mycroft found it an acceptable replacement for the Diogenes Club.

He noticed someone approach, but found it comfortably unneccesary to make a remark. He simply nodded, acknowledged the other's presence, not looking away from the stars.

Jaime had noticed that constant, irritating humming sound but wasn't exactly sure as to what it meant or what it was that caused it -- all he was certain of was that it was far more irritating than the chirping of crickets at night, their sounds came and went but that humming sound was continuous and never ending.

Nevertheless, the nod seemed so completely and entirely condescending to Jaime. It was something he would do. Which made him grin to himself with a single brow quirked before he turned back toward the stars.

That grin caused Mycroft to arch an eyebrow. "Is something amusing you?" He requested.

"Everything," he said coolie. Only his head slightly pivoting toward Mycroft, a slight tilt to it -- just as condescending as his tone was. In a very oh, really type fashion.

"Then you are one of the first men I've encountered here who find it so," Mycroft replied, not in the least surprised or impressed by the answer. "Of course, as prisons go, this is quite a comfortable one."

"You don't seem like the sort to have ever seen an actual prison, ser," his golden flicked eyes darted back toward Mycroft, his stare bitter and hard. "I'm constantly amused, family trait," even if they all showed it differently.

"Never from the inside," Mycroft replied to that, insinuating by his tone that the other must have. Mycroft was certain that the other had indeed been a prisoner once, not too long ago.

His grin persisted and a slight pivot came of his rubber soles, turning him slightly toward Mycroft. "It's far more amusing when you're on the outside of the cage," Jaime had been on both ends and he was sure he never found Riverrun as fun as he found King's Landing when he was in control.

"Depends on what's on the outside. 'Amusing' isn't the word I'd use for it," Mycroft retorted, still gazing at the stars.

As a Lannister he could find something witty to say about anything, it was genetic. A rather strong gene in his generation especially, though, by far Tyrion had the most talent. Nevertheless, a halfhearted smirk graced his lips once again. "When your subordinates are on the outside and your enemies on the inside ... I find it amusing," those wide shoulders rose for another disinterested nod.

"Ah," Mycroft said, and it was a conclusion and verdict in one syllable. "We are from different world, then. I find things are seldom black and white."

"Things are black and white where I come from, you're either with us or against us," Jaime retorted with just as little interest.

After spending a fair portion of his own first weeks here in a similar fashion, Sandor could recognize someone brooding at the stars when he saw them. The man stood with his hands clasped in front of him, reminding Sandor forcibly of the pose one assumed when standing at the foot of the Iron Throne. A prince's bodyguard, and then a king's. It had all been a joke, though he seemed to have been the only one who thought it was funny.

He had intended to continue on; he had no wish for conversation any more than that sorry bastard probably did. But the sound of his footsteps made the man turn. The dim lights outlined his profile and Sandor stopped short, his eyes going wide. Jaime Lannister wasn't the last person he would have wanted to see join him in this exile-- his brother and the late king Joffrey were neck and neck for that-- but he was still on the list.

"Kingslayer," he said finally, the word gruff and short. Adrenaline prickled the back of his neck, and his fingers flexed for a sword he didn't have. He knew Lannister was unarmed, but the impulse to protect himself against these people was one that would probably never go away.

Jaime had perfected that stance, years and years of just standing at the foot of the throne -- few had been spent in real action, Kingswood Brotherhood battles and then his slaying of the Mad King since he had seen little battle against Robb Stark. He had seen most of his good years wasted away at the foot of the throne of a crazed old man and Robert Baratheon.

Even with his honor being worth shit, he still managed to stand at the foot of that gods forsaken hunk of metal and made it look good. Regardless, in recent times Jaime had begun to find the brotherhood and the entire belief in the Iron Throne to be similarly comical. Though, that couldn't be said in front of Cersei, she would have his other hand for that.

The sound of Sandor's voice, a voice he knew well from the years in Lannister's service, made Jaime turn from the floor to ceiling window quickly and the trait of a knight in both of them made him mimic Sandor's gesture of reaching for a sword that didn't hang from his waist, with a hand he didn't have. The last he had heard of Sandor was that he had fled the Red Keep during the Battle of Blackwater, abandoning his king and his duty. Jaime's head canted slightly as his golden green eyes surveyed him. "Wouldn't it be My Lord Commander, Hound?" As common to Jaime, his tone was snide and his smile appeared to be much more like an arrogant grin.

"It would be, if you were my Lord Commander," Sandor said, shrugging. "Turns out white's not my color." It didn't bother him to have his desertion brought up. He'd never cared for honor, or for his reputation beyond being the second most brutal man in Westeros. Even after everything going so spectacularly to shit after he'd left King's Landing, fighting Dondarrion and losing his money and being saddled with the Stark brat and the massacre at the Twins, he'd still choose it over staying in that city to serve the queen and her power-crazed son.

His eyes fell to the place where Lannister's hand should have been, then back up to the man's face. "I heard you left something at Harrenhal," he said, his own smile closer to a grimace.

"It was never your color. Doesn't suit you," neither did knighthood. The Hound had never been been blessed with the ointments in a Sept, he hadn't spent a night in prayer at the foot of the Warrior ... he hadn't even been knighted on a battle field, been touched by the tip of a blade of even a hedge knight. He hadn't cared for a knighthood and that was well and fine for Jaime Lannister, so long as the Hound hadn't offended the tradition of the White Swords. That wasn't entirely his fault, that had been Joffrey added to by Cersei's decision to rid herself of Ser Barristan one of the greatest knights he had ever seen. Profaning the structure of what the Kingsguard had been.

It was no different than when they called him Kingslayer, it was just another slight that he was seemingly to far above to even notice it ... even if not having his sword hand was far more personal than his reputation. It was his identity. Still, in true Lannister form ... emotions were suppressed and only wit remained. "You win some, you lose some," he rose the severed arm as his wide shoulder shelf rose for a rather nonchalant shrug. "I could still carve you into a half dozen pieces," he talked a good game, consider there were no swords for him to have to prove that with.

He'd never seen Lannister fight left-handed, but wasn't sure that meant he couldn't. Sandor himself wasn't as good with his left as his right, but that didn't mean he wasn't capable. Still.

"I'd like to see that," he said with a wide, snide grin. "Unlucky for us, there's no swords here-- or maybe lucky for one of us." His mouth twitched, the burnt skin pulling. "We've always been on the same side til now. It'll be interesting to see what happens now we're not."

It wasn't that Sandor was dying to start a brawl with the Kingslayer-- he wasn't looking to fight with anyone unless they started one with him first. But he wasn't about to give an inch, especially not now that for the first time in his life, he didn't have to give a damn what the man's last name was or how respectful he was supposed to be. Don't work for him anymore, he reminded himself. And lords or commoners don't make a shit of difference here. He knew if he repeated it to himself often enough, eventually he'd start believing it.

"Would you?" His head canted expectantly and defiant, doubting that Sandor meant that ... even if he didn't know how incapable he was with his left hand. He only nodded at the mention of the lack of swords, though thankful that there were none to be had. "Are there sides to take here?" His green eyes, mocking as they were, glancing around the room -- his head and body half turning to peer about them as if he expected battle lines and sides to be forming.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only