maskormenacelogs | gold+fish, bread+salt

Entry tags:

gold+fish, bread+salt

WHO: Catelyn Stark + Jaime Lannister
WHERE: some cute cafe in Nonah
WHEN: backdated to some evening last month
WHAT: old friends reuniting over dinner! just like you do in Westeros. it's all going to go well, no trouble at all.
WARNINGS: usual Game of Thrones language and possible sensitive topics; will update with specificity if necessary

[It is a very long walk, and one that Jaime does not enjoy. Even once he's reached the outskirts of civilization, he has sand crunching in his boots and a stale dry taste in his mouth, a man who has walked too long beside the shores of an unfamiliar ocean. He didn't even have the benefit of following tracks in the sand, lest he find himself trailing too close behind Jorah bloody Mormont.

But he has, at last, reached the city, and turned his steps toward the porter. By now it is well on into the evening, and the lamps that light the streets of Nonah have flickered to life in their curious warm way. The air is pleasant enough, and people are coming in and out of taverns and shops whose doors have not yet been closed for the night. It would be a pleasant sight, perhaps, but Jaime is sour in spirit and bone tired--though he has, of course, been more tired, during battle, after battle, on the road with Brienne, who he thinks of for a moment, without real cause other than the fact that his feet hurt. The Maid of Tarth was known more for her piggish silence. It was Jaime who voiced all the complaints on the road. Until they lopped my hand off, and then I had less to say.

He darts a glance down at the stump, and a frown twists at his face. When I meet Mormont next, I'll be sure to have that godsgifted hand. A true match will not sponge away the bitterness of that dismissal entirely, but Gods, it will help. As for the Targaryen queen, Jaime is just now reaching for his communicator when his gaze catches on the figure of a woman as he passes beside the large window of a tavern: Lady Catelyn Stark.

It is not quite like seeing a ghost. The sight does arrest Jaime momentarily. Then he pushes his communicator back into the pocket of his trousers and turns around to enter the cafe.

It takes only a few words to convince the hostess that he is meant to be meeting the lady. The rime of saltwater on his cheeks and in the rough bristle of his beard, the slight stench of the road--she hesitates, but not for very long, and then she waves Jaime back to the table.

He approaches without hailing Lady Stark, almost as if he's going to pass her by. Then he stops, places his one good hand on the back of the chair opposite of her.]

It's remarkable to see you, Lady Stark.

[She will recognize him once he's spoken, even in these queer clothes: the button-front shirt and the red scarf knotted about his neck, the black vest and black stiff trousers and strange pointed boots, remnants of the costumes worn at the swearing-in ceremony.]

I was briefly a prisoner, not a few hours ago. Then I was freed. And now here you are. Curious coincidences. I wonder if I'm meant to make something of them.

You're looking well.

[Surprisingly. He pulls the chair out slightly, clearly intending to sit.]

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[ She hadn't been expecting company of any sort. And least of all, would she have expected Jaime Lannister. Perhaps he intended to go unnoticed in his strange new attire, but she would have recognized him all the same. ~~That face, that needed another rock in it...~~ Such a shame the gods had made him so pretty on the outside, and so vile on the inside.

She gives him a look just shy of the sort she might turn on something she had stepped in, and about that friendly, too. ]

A pity I cannot say the same.

[ He does look like he's been chewed on and then spit out. If she knew about Dany yet, she would have made some remark about being a dragon's chew toy. But he'll be spared that. For now. ]

Have you been here long enough to make new enemies?

No. I didn't expect you to.

[He looks down at himself, wrinkled from the long walk, and the confrontation earlier. How many weeks has it been since he last saw a look like that? He hasn't forgotten. Disgust--not always worn so plainly, but on Catelyn Stark, the expression is nearly familiar.

Jaime smiles regardless, when he looks back up at Lady Stark.]

No new enemies. Old ones, in their own way. I haven't been here very long, but emotion does carry over into this country. I imagine that's why you're looking at me the way you are.

[He pulls the chair out the rest of the way and seats himself without her leave.]

Did you attend the swearing-in ceremony? It's where I picked up these clothes.

[He spreads his arms slightly--one good whole hand, one stump. The neat fold of the shirtsleeve has come undone and hangs, slack and empty.]

Another gift from our hosts in this country.

[ She is a little startled, it must be said, to note that missing hand. ~~I don't think she should have known about that, if I'm wrong feel free to correct me friend~~ . When last she saw him, he still had it. Along with all his sharp-edged words. ]

How did you come to lose your sword hand, Kingslayer?

[ She gives the word a little more of a bark than it needs, to counterbalance the twist of pity she unwillingly feels for him. For any man to lose a hand is bad enough; for a warrior like him... ]

[Kingslayer. He's missed that almost as much--that is to say, not at all. Jaime does not look down at his missing hand. He knows the sight well enough. He has no need to take it in again. At least she spares you her pity.]

A northman. Or he was, anyways, of some sort. Had a shifting sort of allegiance about him. Your son's bannermen have cloaks that turn so easily, depending on which way the wind is blowing. Wolf pelts one fortnight, lion the next.

[Words as sharp as ever, even with the touch of newer bitterness. Jaime smiles, as he tucks his missing hand out of sight, beneath the table, as easily as he can manage.]

Is there wine, my lady? I have a great thirst.

[ She sets her mouth into a thin line. This, she has not missed either, yet it is easy enough to slip back into old habits, hiding truth in plain sight amongst a pack of lies. She has never been overly skilled at the game herself, yet she will try. The gods cursed her with an aversion to deceit, and bade her live in a world full of liars and betrayers.

She catches their server's eye, asks for the wine list and barely so much as glances at it before stabbing a finger toward one of the unfamiliar names. She will soon discover that she has chosen something better suited to celebration than....whatever this airing of grievances is. Yet she is too proud to admit her mistake. Not now. Let him laugh if he will. Likely he will be none the wiser himself.

Once the bottle has been opened....really, was there such call for theatrics?...and she has taken a sip of the sweet, bubbly champagne, only then does she speak. As though this means nothing. And yet...and yet. She much wants the true answer, even if he is unlikely to give it to her. ]

Interesting that you would choose to speak of allegiances, I know not the man you speak of, yet it is simple enough to claim to act in another's name.

[ A breath, a measuring look, the spring of a trap, the truth clear as bells in her tone if only he had the ear for it. ]

When Roose Bolton drove a blade into my son's heart, he claimed to be acting for you and yours. Was there truth in that?

[The wine tastes sweet and dry at once, with a cluster of bubbles that makes Jaime's nose itch. The fingers of his phantom hand twitch. He manages not to raise his arm, or look overly concerned by her question.

Roose Bolton.]

And he said my name directly? That wasn't a gift I'd asked for. I have no great love for you or yours, Lady Stark, but I will tell you that I'd much rather have kept my hand than had your beloved son stabbed.

[Roose Bolton. Jaime well remembers the dinner he'd had with the man, with the wench in that awful silk dress like a sow sat at a feast. He had wanted to drive a knife through the eye of the Lord of the Dreadfort, but he'd kept complacent, ate the bread and the salt. Was Robb Stark's death meant to make up for the hand Jaime had lost?

If my lord father thought that some boy's head could satisfy the loss of my hand, I'll have to damn him for a fool. An empty thought. Tywin Lannister could in no way be called a fool. Whatever balancing of ledgers he did, he would have involved Jaime. Or Cersei, if Jaime wasn't there. Death for my sword hand. That does sound like Cersei. Or Joffrey. Only he dies as well, doesn't he? What sport the Stranger has.

Jaime speaks none of this aloud, but takes another sip of his wine before he makes his reply.]

You see, funnily enough, it was Roose Bolton's man who removed my hand. Strung it about my neck and made me carry it with me. As far as hospitality goes, I much preferred the cage with the wolf pacing around it. It might have smelled of shit, but shit is surprisingly a kinder scent than the stench of rotting flesh.

Help me with my memory, please, my lady. When exactly did this stabbing take place?

[ She lets him speak, and she watches him with the focus one would give a poisonous snake, wary and cautious. She wrinkles her nose slightly at the thought of the barbarity of men to one another. But such is the way of the world they have come from, and she is hardly surprised anymore by the terrible ways men have found to make each other suffer.

She sips the champagne and wishes she could find it in herself to enjoy even this small thing more. But he has brought up the specter of the past, and the wine tastes like ashes in her mouth. Ash, and blood. ]

My brother Edmure wed one of Walder Frey's daughters in place of Robb.

[ It is the barest shadow of the truth of the tale, but it will do. ]

All seemed well, and then the musicians began to play the Rains of Castamere. The doors were locked, and the crossbows appeared.

Have you not heard this tale? It is the last I can relate from personal experience. It seems dying is the easy part. Living is the challenge.

[Dying, she says, and Jaime makes quick study of face, which altogether looks whole and alive, if not lively--not unlike the last time Jaime saw Lady Catelyn Stark, on his knees, in mud.]

No.

[A murder at a wedding. House Frey to be joined to House Stark, one of those countless wenches made queen--and then they got a fish in the marriage bed instead. Given the slight, small wonder that there was some recompense visited upon Lady Catelyn's boy king. How my own family came to be joined to it, that's another question entirely. How it came to murder, another question entirely.]

And you'll forgive me for asking you to retell it. I've not had much news in Westeros, and since arriving in this country, it's all come to me piecemeal. I'd heard we were short several of our kings.

[Like Joffrey. Jaime takes another mouthful of the strange wine, rather than think of the boy.]

And while I would call this wedding ill-done, I'm afraid that also means you can't assign blame to me. In your search for justice, Lady Stark, I will wish you well. This country is nothing if not full of second chances.

[He raises the slender glass in her direction. A toast, unkindly given. She claims to have died, and yet she lives. Not the strangest of things, considering the power of the gods in this country. Not entirely welcome, either. And the fact remains that Jaime would not have ordered a murder at a wedding. His lord father and beloved sister, on the other hand...]

[ Strange as it may seem, she believes him. He has been careful with his truths, as they all are, but he has never lied when asked a direct question. It may not be much, but it will do. She takes a sip from her glass before she speaks. ]

The wedding was a poor choice, yet it was the one Robb left us. He and I did not agree on his choices, as you may imagine. I suppose it is likely your father was not overly pleased with you joining the Kingsguard.

[ Imagine. He was to be wed to Lysa. What a bewildering thought indeed. ]

You see, all seemed to be normal, and I thought perhaps Walder Frey's pride had been appeased. It all happened so quickly. Then the musicians played the Rains of Castamere. I could not shake a premonition. That is no song for a wedding. The doors were closed. Lord Walder proclaimed that he had yet to offer Robb a wedding gift. And Roose Bolton turned to me and smiled. He was wearing mail beneath his finery, I saw with my own eyes. I hit him with all I had across the face for betraying us and screamed for Robb, but it was too late. Robb's queen Talisa was stabbed and she fell dying. The musicians began firing crossbows at all of us. I fell. Robb fell. But he could not be stopped by just that.

[ Such pride still in her boy. ]

He crawled to Talisa's side, and held her as she died. This brought Walder Frey no end of malicious joy, as I'm sure you may imagine. I had crawled beneath a table, and who should I see nearby, also sheltered, but Joyuese, the newest unlucky Frey bride. I took a knife in hand, and pulled her into the light, promising to open her throat if my son was not allowed to leave. I begged him to get up, to walk away. I offered myself as hostage. I tried all I could think of. But Roose, the Stranger take him, proclaimed that the Lannisters sent their regards, right before he stabbed Robb in the heart. I watched him fall, I knew he was gone. Joyuese was not far behind him. I kept that promise. And I no longer cared when they cut my throat. What was left?

Edited (spacing wtfery) 2017-05-17 01:07 (UTC)

[But the Kingsguard is an honor, my lady, and your son nothing but an oathbreaker. Like me. Yet she has the right of it. Tywin Lannister was not pleased, and in the end, Jaime was not pleased either, not once the truth of his vows had settled onto his shoulders.

Of course, Jaime tells none of this to Lady Stark but holds his peace. She deserves none of it. Instead, he takes another sip of his own wine as she speaks. And then another longer sip. He's nearly drained his glass by the time the brutal tale comes to an end.]

Is that truly a question?

[What was left? Jaime himself asked nearly the same after they'd taken his hand. I was that hand. And all the way to Harrenhal, on the road, in a captive's seat at Roose Bolton's table--he had been thinking much the same. Even if the wench wouldn't shut up, I was still thinking it.

The serving man comes around again with the wine, and without sparing thought or glance, Jaime holds his glass out to be refilled.]

A chilling tale, my lady. Ill done. I will say again that I knew nothing of it, and had nothing to do with it, as preoccupied as I was. And any man will tell you that I prefer to meet my enemies in the field. Or they would, if they weren't all dead.

[And if I still hand my sword hand. Another mouthful of wine, to wash down that bitter thought.]

Still, I wonder what plans the Gods have for you, bringing you here, to this country, after all of that.

[Her throat looks whole, pale, undamaged. What does that mean?]

[ She has accepted a refill of her own, and she is looking deep into the wine's light-colored depths, as if perhaps some great secret lies hidden within. There is aught there, aside from the wine itself, and she knew that, though she has become somewhat accustomed to seeing people in still waters, as much as one can. Another strangeness of this place. ]

I believe you, foolish as that may prove to be. You may be somewhat given to breaking oaths, yet I have never heard your nor your brother speak an outright lie. It is tiresome to secondguess every word another speaks. I have no taste for politics, no moreso than Ned did. Though we should have learned...

[ She lifts the glass to her lips and drinks, futilely wishing for a little less clarity of thought. ]

Roose did not name you, only your family. I daresay it is more the work of your sister. Perhaps along with your father. Still, it was a question that must be asked.

Did you discover my daughters along your travels? And what of Brienne? Does she yet live?

[ It is a test again of sorts, as she pins him with another look as cleanly as an entomologist might pin a butterfly against a board. She knew where Arya and Sansa were, here at least. But she would know what tale he would spin, and weigh it against the truths they had spoken to her. Brienne she has sworn to shelter and care for, in return for her honorable service, and so she will, if ever given opportunity. ]

[Jaime's smile tightens to a line before he raises his glass back to his lips once more. Somewhat given to breaking oaths. They never let me forget. As if he could.]

I'm sure your trust in my word will prove a great comfort to me. If I thought you would accept my advice as readily, I would caution you from assuming the guilt of either my sister or my father in this ill doing.

[Even if you might prove to have the right of it. She has seen what he has, and named it aloud. The latter part is more difficult to bear.]

A lion does indeed have claws, my lady. Of your daughters, I can't say I looked particularly hard for them. I believe that was the wench's charge. Brienne of Tarth, [more slowly, half to himself, as he takes another sip of the wine.] She's as well as ever--or she was when last I saw her. I suppose she might have gotten up to anything since then. Trouble seems to find her rather easily, likely because she's so freakishly tall.

[The look Lady Stark has fixed upon Jaime is one meant to make him squirm. It does, in a small way. He bears it without flinching, sets his glass on the table so he can return that look to her.]

And now you must tell me the truth, my lady. Why do you care? You'll have no doubt been told that time works rather differently here, for all of us. Whatever you do here, whatever you learn or intend, whatever truces you broker or break, none of it will have bearing in the Seven Kingdoms.

[For all of us. Not just the dead.]

[ He is easily one of, if not the most breathtakingly annoying people she has ever interacted with. And she considers reminding him that part of his conditional freedom had been the welfare of her daughters. But why trust a promise wrung from an oathbreaker at sword's point? So she only lifts the glass to her lips and drinks again, barely tasting the sweet, bubbly stuff anymore. Why did she care? If what he said was true, and why would he lie to her, then what happened here mattered little. ]

I know not for what purpose I live again. If it is meant as consolation or merely some jape of the gods. Their ways are, as always, unknowable and beyond my understanding at least.

But I have been given a second chance.

[ Despite her better intentions, she is being far more vulnerable than it is wise to be around such an unknown quantity as he is. And yet....it is her honest nature to be guileless and truthful. ]

And I will not waste it. I owe that to my children and to myself.

Perhaps we will always be at crosspoints with each other. The gods alone know the answer to that as well.

And yet I would test you out, to see what you are now. What metal are you at your core?

[Whatever Jaime thinks about the rest of what she has laid before him--honest words, as dutiful and honorable as any Tully might hope to be--he keeps to himself, and instead favors Lady Stark with a smile.]

I would think that answer obvious, my lady. I'm a Lannister. Gold is our metal.

[And to that he takes another drink, though the peculiar sweetness of the wine has coated his mouth and put the beginning of an ache somewhere in his forehead.]

For your other questions, I might suggest you pray to the gods for understanding and enlightenment, and see what answer they give to you. Now, which one would help a hopeless cause--perhaps the Mother?

[She settles back against the chair, lifting her chin slightly as she does so. She may have been born in Riverrun, yet she has spent most of her life learning northern reserve and this is not a posture in keeping with that. But the alcohol buzzing through her veins sees no fault here, and she gives him a smile he might be used to seeing on Cersei. Not flirtatious, no, not in the least, but maliciously amused. ]

To cleanse impurities, gold is put to the fire and comes out much the better for it, a stronger, purer metal. Have you been so refined, ser?

[ And to his chiding, she will take that bait, though she does not feel her cause is hopeless. ]

I often hope the Mother has seen fit to guide me when I needed her mercy and understanding. Yet these days I feel more inclined to ask for help and guidance from the Warrior or perhaps the Stranger. A voice for darker paths.

What of you? Do you seek the gods in prayer? Or are you your own god, answerable to yourself alone? How do you think they will deal with you, when you hold your life in your hands and lift it up for them to weigh?

~~forgive me, I think I stole a little inspiration from Egypt and Ma'at for this~~

[Whatever he says, she will dismiss. She intends to cut him with that smile of hers. Jaime has seen its like before. His flash of anger likely makes itself plain on his face, for at least a brief moment. What right does she have to judgement? A wolf against a lion, armed with her late lord husband's idea of honor. Honor. All the world would have Jaime choke on that word. Oathbreaker, Kingslayer, a man without honor. But what is honor, truly?]

I have been through fires, my lady. Whether or not this has refined me-- [He shrugs, one shouldered, as he takes another swig of the wine, generous enough to drain a good portion of the glass.] I believe I won't waste my time defending myself to you.

[When he sets the glass down, the serving man is there once again to fill it back up. He fills Lady Stark's, too, before he departs. The bottle must be nearly gone by now, and already Jaime feels the buzzing numbness that comes of wine drank quickly. He takes another mouthful anyways.]

You know, the Warrior was always my god. I spent hours staring at the statue in our sept at the Rock when I was a child, whiling away those hours that were to be spent in prayer with my own fantasies of the knight I intended to become. So if your intent is to now give me a lesson in religion, I decline. I barely listened to our septon back then. You I will have no trouble ignoring.

Whatever path you find yourself on, Lady Stark, my only prayer is that it keeps you far from me so I might be spared further-- [He gestures, with his glass; a little of the wine slops over the rim and over his hand.] --looks. Judgement.

[ She arches a brow; while she too feels the alcohol's effects, she will not betray herself with it. Her hands are steady and so is her voice. ]

It is not my judgement you should fear, but that of the gods. I know you have outgrown your belief in them; you said so yourself in one of our last conversations. But though you may have given up on them, ser, they have not given up on you.

[She lifts her glass to her lips and drains its remaining drops without breaking eye contact. She stares him down, as much a challenge as any bared blade in her eyes. She is not afraid of him. She returns the glass to the table with just a touch more force than strictly necessary, and adds to it more than enough of this place's strange currency to cover the cost of the bottle. ]

Need I remind you that you were the one who started this conversation? Though I would say I have never met another warrior who was afraid of a look from anyone. Keep your feet from my path, Jaime Lannister, else I tangle your feet and bring you to the ground.

~~alley fight, y or y?~~

You do yourself a great generosity if you think I meant I feared your look, Lady Stark. I have seen its like before, from you. You have fixed it upon me often enough, and yet I'm the one who lives, while you are dead.

[What a queer sentence to say aloud, like speaking in a dream. Jaime pushes back from the table and grabs his wine glass to raise it in a toast.]

To your House, Lady Stark. I am glad I will see it all come to rot. I wonder which of us the gods truly favor?

[Neither of us. He supplies the answer for himself as he drains the rest of the sweet wine in a single long drink and replaces the glass, somewhat clumsily, upon the table. No one has ever been favored by the gods. The glass makes a heavy clunk against the bare wood of the table's face, unmuffled by cloth.

Jaime touches his good hand to his breast, a gesture of respect which he manages to tint with sarcasm.]

And thank you. For the wine, and the conversation.

[And before she can say anything more, he turns to leave.]

[ She literally sees red for a moment, her temper raging through her like a wildfire, and instead of tamping it down as she so frequently does, she gives it absolutely free rein, and he is lucky she has no powers that are based on fire, because surely he would have burst into flames from the heat of her anger. She snaps her teeth together with a sharp click , very canine for one born a fish. She does not let the anger consume her...no, it is rage now, a shade hotter than mere anger. But she will use it as fuel, let its momentum carry her on its wings.

She snaps out a hand; though its flexibility and range of use have been restored, still scarred across the palms by the blade meant for Bran's throat; digs her nails into his collar and propels him toward the door and into the street. The street is too civilized, so it is the alley between the buildings she chooses. In their time it would likely be rank with refuse and unspeakable puddles of filth; here there is only mud and the faint, sickly sweet scent of decay from a nearby but unseen dumpster.

No doubt she has taken him by surprise, and she has a brief moment to wonder if the somewhat parental gesture strikes some childhood memory, but this is no time for that. She flicks her wrist and sends him nearer the brick wall across the way. He will soon enough recover and he will not be like to spare her whatever damage he can still dish out because she is female, and she cares not. Still she has not spoken another word; she is certain that her voice will be more a growl than it should be.

She has seen battle enough in her life; practice for men and boys, the real thing fought in earnest, more duels than she cares to think of. Westeros is a violent place. But rarely has she been as close to it as she feels she now is; rarer still has she started it. On the surface it seems no contest at all. He, though one-handed, has been a warrior since he could barely stand, and she is smaller, lighter, a mother of five more often lifting a needle than even a kitchen knife. And yet what lessons she has gleaned are this: every fight is unpredictable. Dogged determination and the will to be oneself a weapon may carry one farther than the sharpest blade. Witness Bronn at the Eyrie; a born loser if ever there were one. And yet he had been the one to walk away, and not through the Moon Door either. She has her own strange new abilities; likely he does as well. Who will win? It remains to be seen. But she will bleed him before she is done, even if it but a scratch.]

The Starks will hold the North, ser, when the oceans have turned Casterly Rock into sand, mark my words. Even my husband's bastard boy is more fit than any your House can claim. And the Tullys have held Riverrun before Lan the Lucky drew breath, and no lion trickery will take it from us. That you may depend on, no matter the gods' meddling.

[It is a mark of just how upset she is that she would dare speak so close a thing to sacrilege. Reckless, perhaps. ]

I may be bones in the river alongside my fathers and mothers when I am taken from here, and there is aught I can do about that. Yet here I live and breathe, and I will not be so insulted by you, or anyone else.

[Tl;dr : come at me bro, and put your money where your mouth is. Be honest. Have you ever got to drunk fight anyone in an alley? I feel like the Kingsguard feels itself a little above brawls, and ya'll aren't supposed to drink. ]

[In the alley, the air is cooler, but fouler. It does a little to clear Jaime's head as he stumbles, shoved forward by Lady Stark. Her hands have a roughness to them that he would not expect of a highborn lady. Northmen are hard. Perhaps they set even women of gentle birth to work, as some test of their heartiness. Was that part of her courtship?

If Tyrion were here, Jaime would discuss it with him in mock seriousness. Then again, if Tyrion were here, it would be more likely to find him in a drunken confrontation in an alley outside a tavern. And there is little use in thinking of what Tyrion would do, because Tyrion would keep talking, whereas Jaime feels the first blaze of anger.]

Have a care, Lady Stark.

[She has not thrown him into the wall opposite. Jaime had stopped his stumble before that. He turns a look over his shoulder on her. Head stuffed full of wool, still, and he looks half a wreck for all the good freedom and a month in this country have bought him, but his anger is there in his green eyes all the same.]

Here you might live and breathe. You are lucky, and I will not deny you the luxury that luck has won you, for you will enjoy so precious little of it. And while you are enjoying it, count how many Starks will enjoy breath once we are all back in our right country. I could count for you, if you like, one hand and all.

Because no one holds the North. It is left to scavengers. Trueborn wolves are hard to come by these days. And Casterly Rock is very large.

[And there are no trueborn lions worth inheriting the Rock, but Jaime leaves that unsaid. He turns, instead, squares his shoulders. His empty sleeve dangles conspicuously, but he pays it little mind.]

Now, if you intend to step out into this alley and strike me for true, my lady, I promise you that I will not permit it.

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gold+fish, bread+salt

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alley fight for SURE

get outside, lion boy

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