Joanna had been back in Westeros for several weeks, though she had not dared go to Casterly Rock or the Captiol, not yet. When her curiosity, the need to see her family, those she had been forced to leave behind. If word of her return had reached the ears of the family, Joanna did not know. Though she could see the recognition in some of their eyes.
Not far in, she stopped watching a man. Her son, Jamie, it had to be him. She hesitated before going closer. "Pardon ser, do you know where I might find someone from the Lannister family…?“
Hershiningknight is one of the loveliest Jaime Lannisters out there. The writing is sublime, the threads are sublime and the fun and mockery going on which are borderline in character and out of character are simply a refreshment to be a witness to. The mun is a wonderful open minded person with a very good sense of humour and when being serious whatever you read speaks of Jaime no matter what verse they use at the time. Go and give them the love they deserve!
Robert Baratheon’s kisses are not sweet. They are vicious and quick and cruel, and they come not long after Cersei has spit venom at him. They come with a closed fist or an open hand.
They are badges she wears with honour. Honour and silence.
The latest is a bloom of bruise-purple and muted red around her lip. She has made no effort to cover it with cosmetics, much to his disdain. She wonders why he makes such outward gestures if he so wants them hidden. And then she remembers that she is thankful he did not swing for her gut – she bears a life inside, one she has told no one about.
He has long since passed out, a glutton on wine and red meat, and will no doubt sleep well into the next day. And Cersei, wrapped in her furs with her hair braided back, seeks out her brother, pressing her palm against the wood of his door, before curling her fingers against her palm to knock, rapping lightly.
❆— Hate was the color of blood, the color of her father’s pallid skin when his head was stuck on a pike. Hate knew no mercy and had no friends. Lions turned her to porcelain, ivory, steel. She wanted to be hate. She wanted to be cruel and unkind, with words sharp as the blade Ice and a gaze that would make a lion’s skin crawl.
Jaime Lannister made it hard to play the game. Jaime Lannister had lost his sword hand, the love of his sister, and perhaps even the love of the people. Jaime Lannister lost so many things, yet for some reason he found her, swore to bring her back home safe to Winterfell. When he first said it, Sansa merely laughed. How could he possibly bring home back to her? How could he possibly bring back her mother, her father, her sister, and her brothers? Most of them were gone. The others? Well, she tried not to think of what they thought of her. For some time she had been a Lannister.
Sansa lifted her gaze, Jaime’s cloak wrapped around her shoulders as she stared out at the frosted window. With the snow near blinding, travel was not safe. A small cabin was their temporary home, yet she could scarcely believe that she was on her way North. Most of the time she refrained from talking to him, scared that if she spoke too loud then this obvious dream would be broken. She’d wake up and find herself trapped in a cage. The cold will comfort me. The North remembers.
She remembered every cruelty, yet when she turned to see Jaime huddled up on a bedroll, back pressed against a wall, Sansa knew that she had to remember the good as well. If the North only remembered cruelty, what was the point of remembering at all? Jaime Lannister was a summer boy and she was certain that he was far better off in a warm place. Wolves thrived in the cold–lions most certainly did not.
When she stepped over to him, her footsteps were quiet. Kings Landing had taught her to be quiet, lest someone first speak to her. Then she always said the pretty little words the Septa taught her, but the Septa never told her what to say when a lion became a black sheep. On a cold winter’s night, Sansa realized that the once revered knight was just as alone as she was. One part of her was sad–the uglier part of her, the one that had been born when her father had been given ‘mercy’, felt satisfied.
“You need to stay awake.” Her voice was even quieter than her footsteps as she knelt down. The cold was her comfort, but it could very well kill them both if they weren’t careful. She pressed her lips against his forehead and found that he was warm–warmer than he should be. For a few moments she allowed herself to linger before she sat next to him. “Are you sick?” The concern in her voice surprised her, yet she was sure that it would surprise Jaime even more. “Here, we can share your cloak. The cold doesn’t bother me."