edge_of_forever | (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.

Threaded | Flat

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.

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.

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.