multiversallogs | there were stern stands

Who: Jaime Lannister, Seoraj, Sonja Garin, and YOU
What: Various encounters with Jaime in Baedal.
Where: The Arena, Griss Twist generally, the Twelve Point divinity temples, other places your heart desires.
When: Whenever you want.
Notes: An open log and one closed thread! Tag in however otherwise, hopefully the above is a guide. But if you would like to do a thing and want me to kick off a thread, I am happy to open one, just let me know.
Warnings: Maybe language, possible medieval dickbag behaviour and the like. Probable violence in the case of the Arena.

Jaime alternates between taking it with him wherever he goes to keeping it safe inside a drawer. The hair comb, that is, the one he received a few days ago, one he would recognise anywhere. It slots into the category of things of value he could trade for money, and he's been thinking like this ever since he had the gold chipped off his Kingsguard armor. But unlike his Kingsguard armor, which he had quite merrily assaulted and defaced (via a smith, granted), the comb and its finery is kept instead, quite useless, and quite pretty.

His neighbours (he has them, now) in Griss Twist have more or less gotten used to that weirdo who insists on wearing a sword and a knife almost everywhere he goes.

That doesn't quite mean that Jaime has become used to them. The political nuances of Baedal are not quite as intuitive as the CiD he has slowly become accustomed to, able to send a message without first squinting at the pamphlet for reminder and instruction. There is less detail when it comes to the population of Baedal he has come to wryly describe as the dragons that vote, less instruction, certainly. And at the end of the day, less of a concern than everything else he must think about; his brother, their well-being, and the next round at the Arena.

Despite the pressures of modern society and a little bit of nagging from certain cohort members, Jaime is often in archaic dress, in breeches, leather doublets, suede jerkins, cotton shirts; everything modern seems frail and simple to Jaime's tastes and thus, cheap, even when it is not. He hasn't undergone the re-education.

The times he does not spend either hiding in his room (for all that he will not nor cannot admit to doing any such thing) or watching and participating in the events of the Arena, they are spent in simple exploration. Travels to Salacus Fields where he's seeing a man about a horse, riverside wanders, explorations to where the land stops and the ocean begins. Quiet nights spend with boots kicked up in taverns turning rowdy with petty bar brawls, retreats to woodlands where the city noise is dim (and he is used to city noise, but a different kind), market streets to acquire things he needs at cheaper rates where his last haggling move can no longer be that a Lannister pays his debts. Sometimes, he visits the temples, and usually manages to keep his peace, torn between cynicism and belief.

He avoids the visible xenians, when he can. Sometimes it isn't possible.

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That second meaning is caught in the tone at Tyrion's first remark, an adolescent wrinkle developed at Jaime's nose before it smooths again, mouth in a thin, smirking line. His intent will be focused squarely ahead, but people rarely go completely silent when watching these little tournaments. "Well, you're a peculiar man, so I wouldn't be shocked to know you have peculiar tastes. But spare me any lizard-skinned bastard nephews and nieces, especially on my generousity--"

His words break off there at a drawn-in hiss when the biting blades find the opponant's face, hands coming together not in a clap, but to shape palm against palm in a sort of restless gesture that feels over the roughness of his own hands. Usually before his own game battles.

It would be a shame to ruin Jaime's focus by saying learned from experience, eh?, so Tyrion refrains; the fight is sufficiently fevered that even a casual observer like himself can watch without complaint for several minutes on end.

Several minutes is all it takes, though, as is sometimes the case with armed combat. One fighter goes down, the other is victorious, and people move in to set the area to rights again for the next match.

"I assure you that were I to get a lizardwoman with child, I would marry and support her. With my job. The thing that only one of us has."

The recent fight is finished and forgotten, Jaime free to give Tyrion a look side along that has little appreciation for that particular remark. Despite hearsay, he is relatively slow to offense, especially from family, but he doesn't have any smart remark in automatic response either. Finally;

"You know, I don't perform down there for your personal amusement, dear brother."

He does it because he likes it, too, because he rarely ever feels more real and valid and alive than when he is fighting, but that is! Not the point. The point is it earns. Alongside criminals. "Or would you see me become a sellsword?"

"If you were so moved. For in fact it doesn't amuse me to see you here. I would only loosely call this a living, Jaime."

He hadn't intended to broach the subject so quickly, but his remark had been misjudged, and he might as well.

"More like a maiming waiting to happen. Hopefully somebody else's, but possibly yours, however much faith I have in your skill. And then what? Difficult to fight, difficult to work. It's fine for now, and they say Gediron favors the fearless, so win the tournament — be the champion — but find something else, too. The personal guard for a rich patron. A master-at-arms. Sheriff of some section of the city. Would it be so terrible?"

"You would think that way."

Which is arguably a pragmatic and practical way of thinking, in all fairness; Jaime sees it as coming from a man who likes it here and has been telling him all about it, this and that book, the position Tyrion's won for himself, the more fascinating corners of a given neighbourhood. Jaime has responded variously. Tolerant and simple answers, generous attempts at shared amusement, cynical remarks, and on the worser days, a plea for Tyrion to shut up.

His shoulders roll a little in his own defensive slouch, returning his attention to the field. "Jaime Lannister seeks employment. Submits, if you will. I'm content as I am - hitting things."

Edited (rar werds) 2012-02-17 05:21 (UTC)

Tyrion twiddles the legs of his snack a bit more, watching Jaime out of the corner of his eye.

"Well, in time, I shall hire you, and pay you very well, I might add. Once I've learned more about the system of politics here," he grudgingly allows. "Then I can use you to intimidate or flirt with my opponents. Maybe both. Some people like that sort of thing."

He too watches the field, but half his attention is on this vague set of plans, its pleasant ridiculousness.

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."

"That's very kind, I've always longed to be more personally entertaining than a man of his particular interests," Tyrion says, skirting the specifics of Aerys' reign, as it's hardly necessary to reference them to someone who'd been there personally. Forgoing addressing the comment about their father is more absentminded than deliberate; it's as easy as letting water flow through his fingers, even if there had been a conscious decision not to shut his hand.

The delicate phrasing has Jaime considering that perhaps they aren't both talking about Robert, but really... the same goes for Aerys, for all that enduring Baratheon's sharp comments and whimsical attempts at mocking, often drunken soldier-talk with 'the Kingslayer' were certainly a different kind of offense to the things Jaime stood by and watched under Aerys' rule. He is silent as this comparison runs through his mind, watching the field.

Would it be so hard, for the kingdom to have a good king? But truly, his only attempt at caring enough to do something about it had only favoured him so much - 'escaping death and/or the Wall' is not actually a positive outcome so much as it is a near miss. Somewhere, across dimensions, Joffrey sits on the Iron Throne.

"I've been meaning to introduce you to someone," he finally says, after a time. "Jack Benjamin, a landowner, seems inclined to befriend me. If you've high ambitions, little brother, you might enjoy his company too."

there were stern stands

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