He'd arrived on horseback at approximately the right time he'd promised -- appointments measured into hours, nay, minutes, seems a strangely pedantic quirk of this time, but Jack's schedule was something of a trial by fire in this way, and so no longer an unfamiliarity. Jaime wears the make of his home world with a certain kind of stubbornness unless he's cornered via social terrorism into wearing a suit, and today is not such a day -- dark brown leather with visible stitching flaps as far as his knees in an open coat, scratched and roughed from good use.

Armed with knife and sword both, these things worn plainly and heavily, his former wealth is not readily apparent, but his bearing of a knight is in his stride, the set of his shoulders, his own kind of militant precision.

He is, also, a little cynical of this endeavour, for reasons he had not explicitly made clear to Jack. But here Jaime is all the same, to hear what the lady might have to say in her measure of the arrangement, and he raps the backs of his knuckles against the frame of her door to signal his arrival once he's directed through headquarters.