open ||

[uncledad]

WHO: Jaime Lannister + various
WHERE: De Chima OR wherever really I'm flexible
WHEN: month of February
WHAT: catch-all log for the month - open prompts behind the below cut + also some TDM carryover threads will be here. hit me if you want to do something other than what's here.
WARNINGS: language and mentions of Game of Thrones-y violence at the worst, probably; will update if anything changes.




[DE CHIMA - at #005]

A man of action at heart, and for lack of better direction, Jaime makes his way to the quarters provided to him to make inspection of the place. Before he was anything, he was a solider. He knows what it is to be quartered somewhere strange, away from a castle or a keep more familiar. Told to live somewhere else is less familiar, but as he has little choice in the matter, he goes anyways, finds the house marked 005. Several rooms, one with a low sofa and a fireplace, a kitchen styled in a strange fashion, full of food and plates and glasses and queer objects he does not know or recognize. And, like all buildings he has been in so far, Jaime finds this one warm, though the hearth has no fire in it.

As he passes the tiled room that serves as the privy, Jaime catches sight of a man stood just inside the door. His phantom fingers twitch, instinct a prickle in his missing hand--but the man is his own reflection, caught in the looking glass posted there. Half a stranger even to himself. Alone in the house (so far as he knows), he laughs.

[DE CHIMA - afternoon.]

Jaime, long a prisoner, has little interest in sitting and waiting to see what happens next. He leaves his meager belongings in the little room provided to him and goes out. Outdoors, the sky is overcast, and the air has a damp chill to it that reminds him of the northlands, all brown and cold and grey. A miserable country, full of nothing. Good riddance to it.

There's a district of shops not terribly far which he'd passed on the way in, and it's here that Jaime turns his steps. The walk is cold, but when he reaches the shops, they are, each of them, possessed of that same strange warmth.

In a specialty game store, Jaime spends some time in front of a display of chess sets. Chess. The very word is idiotic. Most of the sets are hidden away in sealed packages, but one has a board and loose pieces set out on top, and Jaime picks one up in his good hand, fingers only a little clumsy. The piece he's selected is, by chance, the king.

At other shops, he wanders in and out, never lingering for very long. By the end of the afternoon, he's grown tired of the shops and the shoppers both, and is sat at a park, idly watching a pickup game of basketball. In an worn wool cloak, with the stump of his hand tucked away, he looks completely anachronistic, nothing like a knight, or the Kingslayer--but vaguely peaceful.

[DE CHIMA - a bar, evening.]

Jaime is still wearing the clothes he arrived in, and so when he goes into the tavern for a meal, he's easily marked as an imPort. He gets a table to himself and is soon furnished with ale and some food--a slab of ground meat with minced onions between two pieces of soft bread, and potatoes cut square and fried to a crisp. It isn't very good, but the ale takes some of that taste away, and Jaime isn't very picky when all is said and done. He eats, because he hasn't eaten all day, but he has to take care with his bites. His left hand isn't as serviceable as it ought to be, and from time to time (especially as he gets in his cups), he nearly reaches for his glass with his stump.

The trouble with being an imPort is the keen attention. Jaime is furnished with drinks from time to time, and occasionally beset by company. The serving girl comes by more often than she should, apparently untroubled by Jaime's appearance. At one point he decides to put his stump on the table, pointedly, just to see what she does. Perhaps the clean bandage renders it inoffensive, or perhaps she truly does not care. Whatever the reason, she leans right over the lopped-off limb and grabs his glass, with a sweet smile.

The attention isn't all pleasant. Even the drink isn't enough to dull Jaime's wits entirely. There's a sharpness to a gaze that he notices, and dislikes. The tavern has by then grown crowded, but Jaime finds his target easily: a cluster of men at the bar, casting dark glances his way. Jaime almost smiles. This is as familiar as the hero-worship. Almost comforting.

When the serving girl brings back the full glass, Jaime favors her with a smile as he pulls out the strange coin given to him. "Those men there. How much would it be to send them a drink?"

[WHATEVER.]

just write something and I'll go with it!

Comments

HEROPA - JON SNOW

[uncledad]

[continued from here]

[song_of_ice]

[He'll question himself later about why he mentioned being "king". It wasn't exactly a title he wanted or fought for. Facing Jamie Lannister had a way of raising the same ire in him that Ramsay Bolton had that first time. Neither of them had much authority in this place, so they were busy measuring up the other with their titles in their world.

It felt a bit ridiculous, even as his hackles were raised.]

My judgement? Courtesy? What does your family know of that word? Your father arranged to butcher Robb while he was under guest right. My sister was in your family's care and was tormented by Joffery. You expect me to treat you with respect after that?

[uncledad]

[The expression that crosses Jaime's face lasts only a moment--there, and then gone again. The things we do for love. For family, for honor, for glory. Why does any man do anything? And do one thing they mislike and they remember you for it forever.]

Well, I am a knight. That merits the ser, at least. [There's a twist of deprecation to it. Shit for honor. Oathbreaker.] The last time I saw Robb Stark, I was in a cage. Before that, in battle. A Lannister I might be, but I don't know what happened at King's Landing, I don't know what became of your sweet sister, or your brother. I've been a little busy, you see.

[He nods down to his missing hand.]

I'll say it again for you. If you do plan to have your wolf tear out my throat, spare the lecture and have it done now. I hate suspense.

DE CHIMA - TYRION

[uncledad]

[continued from here]

[compensates]

[ He missed this. This camaraderie between them. When they said cruel things and smiles it wasn't the smug mask Cersei wore to hide her worst barbs, they were laughing at themselves as much as each other. In it together. He and his perfect golden big brother. Who is of course not so perfect anymore. And Tyrion does not hold him on quite such a pedestal as he did. But still, he chuckles along, because he missed this. ]

I've behaved myself. It's my countrymen who always seem inclined to have my head.

[ Baelish is here, for one thing, and while he is fairly sure Littlefinger has no reason to bear him any particular malice outside the movements of the Game, Tyrion still feels ill at ease with his presence. And despite Daenerys' alliance, he isn't entirely comfortable with a Greyjoy out and about either. And Jon Snow... well, Tyrion counts him a friend, but he doubts Jaime will feel the same way. And that's not to mention what will happen if the other Starks show up, or Cersei, or gods, their father... ]

You know how it is. Enemies every which way.

[ He grins broadly. ]

Do you think anyone would believe me if I said I'd undergone a reformation?

[uncledad]

I think you would undo your own lie in a day's time. You're not one for penitence, let alone reticence. And you'd look absurd with a begging brother's bowl around your neck.

[As easily as Jaime gives his answer, and as easily as he keeps his pace, he's considering their surroundings with fresh eyes. The promise of countrymen is not one he welcomes--and though Tyrion would likely count Cersei as a sort of enemy, his brother would surely have mentioned her to Jaime by now, if she were here.]

But as half our countrymen have never understood you, I suppose you might be able to fool them. And you know I'm good at keeping secrets.

[A legion of secrets. This should be a sadder statement than it is, or at least, sadder than Jaime treats it.]

Now, which of our enemies will I have the pleasure of managing? Start with the worst.

De Chima; bar

[heckblazer]

((let me know if this is ok??))

[ In the centre of the cluster of men is the shiftiest-looking one of them all. Not as tall nor as strong as the barflys he entertains with tall tales, but with a wicked gleam to his eye and a certain bite to his toothy grin. He's got a certain charm with his golden blonde hair and relaxed, lowbrow accent, but even his current company are beginning to grow bored, not believing his stories of tricking devils and carousing with Death herself. The eyes of the thugs wander, looking for someone to pick a fight with. Yet still the blonde fellow in his trenchcoat carries on.

He certainly doesn't look like he's a dark magic practicioner, given his humourous tone and the unmistakable arrogance on his face. But as he scans the bar, his eyes meet the knight's for a moment, and maybe the Lannister Golden Boy can sense something not quite right about the man. ]

perfect!

[uncledad]

[There is only ever a moment to react, a moment to read a scene. In combat, a clever glance makes all the difference. Any soldier or knight worth his sword would say the same. Jaime, when he locks eyes with the grinning man at the bar, feels a phantom twitch in his missing fingers.

The serving girl has come and gone, left Jaime with another full glass. He picks it up now, somewhat clumsily, and--before the golden man has looked away--raises the glass to him in a silent toast.

It's an acknowledgement. Greet your opponent face-on. Whatever the gesture is taken to mean will suit Jaime's purposes.]

[heckblazer]

[ Somehow, that grin widens. John turns back to his group, a bored look beginning to glaze into his eyes. The whole conversation thread had been odd - they seemed to be from a gang of some sort, recognizing John as an imPort and therefore bearing a grudge. Being rubbish in a fight, John had tried to dissuade them with wits. Bore them, charm them, intimidate them. In the meantime look for an exit.

Acting suddenly as if the four punks were not there, John flags down the barkeep, whispering something to her and sliding her a bill. She sets off with a giggle and within another moment, a shot glass has appeared in front of John's new friend, filled with an amber liquid. John waits until he looks back up, nods back and then waltzes over. He knows that the delinquents back over by the bar will get all the more annoyed at being abandoned, their bluff being called. John is, in fact, counting on it.

He sits down across from the knight as if they've known each other for years, knocking back the shot in his own hand cordially. ]


Either you just finished a shift at the theme park, or you're outta yer' element, mate.

Afternoon

[gravedangers]

A proper professor might spend time planning classes or meeting with students. Graves considers the position more a brief way to kill time while waiting to settle into an actual purpose, and so does none of these things. He rambles at his class on actual history, magical history, from a time then wanders off in and around the various imPort cities with the rest of his time. Getting to know every in and out, for future reference. And, from time to time, getting to know an imPort or two.

Like the cloaked man examining the (tragically non-magical) chess piece. It isn't quite a robe, but it speaks of a man from a more rational world than this one of technology and little else.

"You play?"

[uncledad]

"Apparently."

Jaime fumbles a little less when setting the piece back, conscious of being watched. Then he thinks that he should have made a mess of the pieces on purpose. What does he care what's thought of him? They'll think what they like anyways.

Instead, he turns to fix the man with a dry smile.

"It's a task assigned to me by our benefactors. In truth, I'm impatient with games and know nothing about this one, which makes it either a joke, a choice of desperation, or despair. I imagine there was little else to assign me."

[gravedangers]

"I'm educating young minds on subjects I know nothing about. There's a charming soft of apathy for the civilians under their guidance here."

He'd watched as the piece has been set back in place, then flicks his gaze back towards the man's face. Certainly one that has seen better days. He reaches out easily, picking up a still sealed chess set.

"But there's no harm in practice. If your afternoon is free."

afternoon;

[illuminescent]

[Around three every day, Lucy finds time to leave the office, and lately she's been going to a park nearby to spend time actually breathing in outdoor air, trying to take in as much sunshine as she can. Despite her ability to create light, sometimes Lucy considers herself quite a plant, needing sunlight to function. So here she is, dressed in something halfway between what is fashionable in this world and what is fashionable in Narnia.

She does not really spot Jaime. She sits next to him to fix her boot; there is a rock in her shoe. She knows someone is next to her, but Lucy is quite unafraid of people, especially those who look as though they might not have a home. The homeless have never hurt her; they know who she is and how she tries to help them. Lucy's clinic is often a first stop for those people who have nowhere else to go.

But the rock is wedged in there.]

Lion's mane-

[She says that with the gritted teeth of someone who is saying something a bit more than just describing an animal part. Her finger is in her boot but she can't get it, so she starts to unlace her boot, when she notices that Jaime's boots are not the kind of shoe usually worn by the people here.

And then she turns her head to look up at him.]

Sir-

Are you an imPort?

[uncledad]

[The woman's oath catches Jaime's attention before she speaks to him--if it is an oath, though it very much seems to be. Something of a smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, though it's concealed mostly by beard.

But at her question, he glances down at himself, then spreads his arms a little.]

What gave me away?

[illuminescent]

[She points, carefully.]

Your boots, sir.

[Because they're not the fashion here, boots like that. The folk here like laces and shoes made of canvas and rubber, or slick short shoes, not boots.

So either he's an imPort, or he robbed one, and Lucy likes to think the best of anyone she meets, even if she doesn't know them.]

de chima bar obvi

[rathercommon]

"Exactly the same amount that it'd be to buy a drink for yourself," Kitty answers, setting the pint down in front of him. This isn't her normal haunt - and, nowadays, bartending and serving isn't even her normal job; normally, she simply hasn't got the physical stamina to be on her feet all day. But her journey with Bartimaeus into the Other Place has revived her for the time being, and so when one of her friends had asked her to pick up a shift when they were short-staffed, Kitty had actually been able to agree. And God, it's nice being back in this job. For just tonight she feels like her old self - trotting around with ferocious energy, laughing and teasing and pulling pints with the best of them. And enjoying the sight of handsomely scruffy, or scruffily handsome, new imPorts.

She follows scruffy-handsome's gaze to the group of men and adds, wryly, "Though spit will cost you extra, if you want that particular addition."

[uncledad]

"Who said anything about spit," Jaime counters, in a tone that suggests he had other additions in mind. And before she can comment on that, he takes it back, swiftly, "After all, you're the one that suggested it. I'm looking to make friends the only way I know how, which is by coin."

Coin and drink. And a good name. That earns allegiance, anyways--not that Jaime has any illusions about earning the allegiance of these men, nor any particularly desire. Or chance, if he's honest. The cluster by the bar are looking surlier by the second.

"What is it that's offended them? Usually men have to hear my name, at least, before they begin looking at me like that."

[rathercommon]

"Oh, rubbish, the only way you know how," Kitty grins back at him. "People fall all over themselves to make friends with handsome faces, don't they. Men and women. Even straight men, honestly. Or, well, purportedly straight men, anyways. Useless label, that. As though sexuality were categorical instead of a spectrum." Rather than spend any time lingering over this perhaps bizarre sentiment, Kitty continues on cheerily -

"Anyway, they might be taking offense to the fact you're an imPort. Some people hate imPorts. So - what's wrong with your name, that it'd make people hate you?"

[DE CHIMA - a bar, evening.]

[devoutish]

It doesn't take long for Alfie to decide that he likes this guy's style.

He's not really paying any particular attention to him, at first. He's here for a meal himself, in his own old-fashioned clothing that also marks him as an imPort, and though they're seated at adjoining tables, he doesn't start out giving the man next to him anything more than a passing glance. But then the stump comes out. As a war veteran, it's nothing Alfie hasn't seen before, but the way he makes a special point of setting it out in front of the waitress makes Alfie snort quietly in amusement, immediately guessing at what is motive might be. He's quietly disappointed when she doesn't react with the shock he assumes the man was trying to bait. And when he reacts to the sullen, glaring men by merrily sending them a drink - a devil-may-care reaction, maybe even a challenge, dressed up as a kindness - Alfie finally turns to address him directly.

"I wonder what they'd think of the hand."

[uncledad]

Jaime smiles into his ale at the suggestion. He's still watching the men at the bar, casual in his next sip, but wary beneath that, waiting for their next reaction.

"I'll assume you mean the lack of hand, and were only too polite to say." He swallows another sip before he sets the glass down again, with a faint sigh. "What do you think. Should I wave at them with it?"

He favors his conversation partner with a sidelong smile, discernible even through his beard. It's at least been trimmed, which has cleaned up Jaime's appearance immensely, and his stump, though it ends his arm with jarring abruptness, is equally clean, with a white bandage. Still likely to turn a thought squeamish. The other man is dressed similarly enough to what passes for garb here, with small details that Jaime--trained at courtesy, schooled on visiting lords and ladies from the other Seven Kingdoms, and beyond--can pick out. A fellow imPort indeed.

[devoutish]

"Only if you unwrap it first," Alfie says, turning around to openly stare at the group of men at the bar. "Or maybe, not even that. I dunno, what do you think? Are they the type to be accustomed to gruesome injuries, or the type to cower from them?"

He's not quite trying to be overheard, but his voice is loud enough that they might catch his words if they're listening for them, and he's perfectly all right with that.

De Chima

[bindsthedead]

[As anachronistic as Jaime's appearance is, it reminds Sabriel of the Old Kingdom. So she sits next to him, watching the game out of the corner of her eye.

She's wearing far more modern clothes than he is, save for the dagger poking out from under her sweater. Still, her posture is nonthreatening, and she's offering him a friendly smile.]

It's a lot to take in, isn't it?

[uncledad]

Not hardly. That side wants to put that ball through there. And the same in the other direction.

[Jaime notes the dagger first, when he actually looks over at the woman who spoke to him. As she's making no move to conceal the weapon, he can either assume that she does not know how to use it, or that she does know how to use it.

He assumes neither to start with, and smiles at her all the same.]

Or did you mean this country?

De Chima - Bar

[baetiful]

[ Petyr Baelish doesn't often find himself in De Chima. But there were a few corporations over here he had wanted to cut a deal with. Maurtia Falls wasn't known for its scientific prowess, after all, and he had hoped to introduce a bit more to his city. But before he heads back home, he opts to get a drink at one of the bars first. Some ale for his troubles.

And what he spots is something that causes him to double take. It's definitely Jaime Lannister, but not the gold-plated, clean shaven man he had known in his time in King's Landing. It's almost easy to overlook him now.

But Littlefinger does not. He approaches just as Jaime poses the question to the barkeep and then produces a clean, crisp hundred dollar bill -- wearing his trademark smirk. ]

Free of charge.

[ Which he figures also buys him the chance to sit next to the Kingslayer. ]

It seems a gateway has opened up to our world and keeps bringing more and more familiar faces from Westeros. Though I must say, yours is a welcome relief.

[uncledad]

[Littlefinger isn't the last man in the country Jaime would share a table with. He isn't even the last man in the Seven Kingdoms Jaime would share a table with. That does not make his company anything less than tolerable.

Perhaps he should greet this company more kindly. Say what you will of the man, Baelish knows how to advance himself. All the more reason not to like him. Or trust him. At court, they were never truly enemies, never truly allies. Never spent much time together at all beyond what politeness dictated, and what Cersei could stand. Master of the Coin to Robert, then Joffrey--then who knows what the Gods did with Littlefinger, while Jaime was busy in the North. Jaime certainly hasn't thought much on the man until now, as Littlefinger sits down beside him. Men have long been currying Lannister favor, playing games of coin and power. Littlefinger is a superb currier. But politics are not a game Jaime has ever wanted to play. Cersei is the schemer. If Cersei were here--

Little use in that thought. Jaime smiles anyways, more sarcastic than good-humored.]

You know, as clever a man as you are, you really ought to work on your lying.

[A welcome relief. Really. Jaime downs a mouthful of ale and sets his glass down heavily. Still smiling.]

That, or you've been in truly dismal company, to greet me so warmly. I've only just arrived. What can you possibly want of me already?