His tension eases a little, mouth twisting in only just suppressed amusement. "Such aspirations," Jaime says. "It's a fortunate thing that Father isn't here for me to care about what he'd think of us."

Or anyone, really, and Cersei is exempt from this pondering because Jaime lists between thinking of her and determinedly not thinking of her, and right now is engaged in the latter thing. "There can't be worse patrons than the late King," he adds, in a gentle sort of concession as he leans back a little, watching the next fighters size one another up as someone buries spilled blood with a handful of sand. "You'd make for better company."