Jaime has armor with the emblem of lions embossed across the leather and metal. Not here, anyway, although perhaps he may commission such on a particularly homesick whim. Much like the direwolf of the Starks, and the roaming great cats of contemporary Earth, such beasts don't simply walk down the street, and perhaps back in Westoros, even Jaime might fancy himself superstitious enough not to fell such a creature. (Or not.)

Out here, it's alone, and the dead horse could well be someone stubbornly left behind, or the next person come to investigate the little ghost town, or the next band of Baedalites attempting to get to the safety of Sobek Croix.

The lion silently refocuses on the knight, giant paws spreading its steps on the cobble as it lumbers around, mouth gaped open with strings of saliva and blood both. Jaime probably seems like easy enough prey, the sword a meaningless thing, and he wonders if he's really going to best the lion or if his remains will be buried by Tyrion. It's a giddy sort of thought, and he knows he has to try, or find some clever method of escape if he begins to fail.

He sees the woman out the corner of his eye, suddenly, a glance of recognition, just as the lion abruptly steers around and rises up, all teeth and one huge swiping paw. The edge of Jaime's sword catches the feline in the face, steering it off, and then another to deny it a second attempt, both of them ever moving in a circle.